Difference between revisions of "XXIII PAGE---THE MAN"

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<P ALIGN=CENTER><FONT SIZE="+2"></FONT><A NAME="ch24"></A><FONT
 
SIZE="+2">CHAPTER XXIV</FONT>
 
 
<P ALIGN=CENTER><FONT SIZE="+2">A RESPITE AT ST. IVES</FONT>
 
 
<P ALIGN=CENTER>.
 
 
<BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Edward M. House</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>Knebworth House<BR>
 
  Sunday, September, [sic] 1917.
 
  <br><br>DEAR HOUSE:
 
  <br><br>. . . By far the most important peace plan or utterance is
 
  the President's extraordinary answer to the Pope.(<A NAME="n177"></A><A
 
  HREF="Pagenotes.htm#177">177</A>) His flat and convincing refusal
 
  to take the word of the present rulers of Germany as of any value
 
  has had more effect here than any other utterance and it is,
 
  so far, the best contribution we have made to the war. The best
 
  evidence that I can get shows also that it has had more effect
 
  in Germany than anything else that has been said by anybody.
 
  That hit the bull's-eye with perfect accuracy; and it has been
 
  accepted here as <I>the </I>war aim and <I>the </I>war condition.
 
  So far as I can make out it is working in Germany toward peace
 
  with more effect than any other deliverance made by anybody.
 
  And it steadied the already unshakable resolution here amazingly.
 
  <br><br>I can get any information here of course without danger of
 
  the slightest publicity---an important point, because even the
 
  mention of peace now is dangerous. All the world, under this
 
  long strain, is more or less off the normal, and all my work---even
 
  routine work---is done with the profoundest secrecy: it has to
 
  be.
 
  <br><br>Our energetic war preparations call forth universal admiration
 
  and gratitude here on all sides and nerve up the British and
 
  hearten them more than I know how to explain. There is an eager
 
  and even pathetic curiosity to hear all the details, to hear,
 
  in fact, anything about the United States; and what the British
 
  do not know about the United States would fill the British Museum.
 
  They do know, however, that they would soon have been obliged
 
  to make an unsatisfactory peace if we hadn't come in when we
 
  did and they freely say so. The little feeling of jealousy that
 
  we should come in and win the war at the end has, I think, been
 
  forgotten, swallowed up in their genuine gratitude.
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Sincerely yours,
 
    <br><br>WALTER H. PAGE.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>.
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Arthur W. Page</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>American Embassy,<BR>
 
  London, Sept. 3, 1917.
 
  <br><br>DEAR ARTHUR:
 
  <br><br>. . . The President has sent Admiral Mayo over to study the
 
  naval situation. So far as I can learn the feeling at Washington
 
  is that the British Navy has done nothing. Why, it hasn't attacked
 
  the German naval bases and destroyed the German navy and ended
 
  the war! Why not? I have a feeling that Mayo will supplement
 
  and support Sims in his report. Then gradually the naval men
 
  at Washington may begin to understand and they may get the important
 
  facts into the President's head. Meantime the submarine work
 
  of the Germans continues to win the war, although the government
 
  and the people here and in the United States appear not to believe
 
  it.
 
  <br><br>They are still destroying seventy-five British ships a month
 
  besides an additional (smaller) number of allied and neutral
 
  ships. And all the world together is not turning out seventy-five
 
  ships a month; nor are we all destroying submarines as fast as
 
  the Germans are turning <I>them </I>out. Yet all the politicians
 
  are putting on a cheerful countenance about it because the Germans
 
  are not starving England out and are not just now sinking passenger
 
  ships. They may begin this again at any time. They have come
 
  within a few feet of torpedoing two of our American liners. The
 
  submarine is the war yet, but nobody seems disposed to believe
 
  it. They'll probably wake up with a great shock some day---or
 
  the war may possibly end before the destruction of ships becomes
 
  positively fatal.
 
  <br><br>The President's letter to the Pope gives him the moral and
 
  actual leadership now. The Hohenzollerns must go. Somehow the
 
  subjects and governments of these Old World kingdoms have not
 
  hitherto laid emphasis on this. There's still a divinity that
 
  doth hedge a king in most European minds. To me this is the very
 
  queerest thing in the whole world. What again if Germany, Austria,
 
  Spain should follow Russia? Whether they do or not crowns will
 
  not henceforth be so popular. There is an unbounded enthusiasm
 
  here for the President's letter and for the President in general.
 
  <br><br>In spite of certain details which it seems impossible to make
 
  understood on the Potomac, the whole American preparation and
 
  enthusiasm seem from this distance to be very fine. The <I>people
 
  </I>seem in earnest. When I read about tax bills, about the food
 
  regulation and a thousand other such things, I am greatly gratified.
 
  And it proves that we were right when we said that during the
 
  days of neutrality the people were held back. It all looks exceedingly
 
  good from this distance, and it makes me homesick.
 
  <br><br>.
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Frank N. Doubleday</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>American Embassy.<BR>
 
  [Undated, but written about October 1, 1917]
 
  <br><br>DEAR EFFENDI:
 
  <br><br>. . . The enormous war work and war help that everybody seems
 
  to be doing in the United States is heartily appreciated here---most
 
  heartily. The English eat out of our hands. You can see American
 
  uniforms every day in London. Every ship brings them. Everybody's
 
  thrilled to see them. The Americans here have great houses opened
 
  as officers' clubs, and scrumptious huts for men where countesses
 
  and other high ladies hand out sandwiches and serve ice cream
 
  and ginger beer. Our two admirals are most popular with all classes,
 
  from royalty down. English soldiers salute our officers in the
 
  street and old gentlemen take of their hats when they meet nurses
 
  with the American Red Cross uniform. My Embassy now occupies
 
  four buildings for offices, more than half of them military and
 
  naval. And my own staff, proper, is the biggest in the world
 
  and keeps growing. When I go, in a little while, to receive the
 
  Freedom of the City of Edinburgh, I shall carry an Admiral or
 
  a General as my aide!
 
  <br><br>That's the way we keep a stiff upper lip.
 
  <br><br>And Good Lord! it's tiresome. Peace? We'd all give our lives
 
  for the right sort of peace, and never move an eyelid. But only
 
  the wrong sort has yet come within reach. The other sort is coming,
 
  however; for these present German contortions are the beginning
 
  of the end. But the weariness of it, and the tragedy and the
 
  cost. No human creature was ever as tired as I am. Yet I keep
 
  well and keep going and keep working all my waking hours. When
 
  it ends, I shall collapse and go home and have to rest a while.
 
  So at least I feel now. And, if I outlive the work and the danger
 
  and the weariness, I'll praise God for that. And it doesn't let
 
  up a single day. And I'm no worse off than everybody else.
 
  <br><br>So this over-weary world goes, dear Effendi; but the longest
 
  day shades at last down to twilight and rest; and so this will
 
  be. And poor old Europe will then not be worth while for the
 
  rest of our lives---a vast grave and ruin where unmated women
 
  will mourn and starvation will remain for years to come.
 
  <br><br>God bless us.
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Sincerely yours, with my love to all the boys,
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>.
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Frank N. Doubleday</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>London, November 9, 1917.
 
  <br><br>DEAR EFFENDI:
 
  <br><br>. . . This. infernal thing drags its slow length along so
 
  that we cannot see even a day ahead, not to say a week, or a
 
  year. If any man here allowed the horrors of it to dwell on his
 
  mind he would go mad, so we have to skip over these things somewhat
 
  lightly and try to keep the long, definite aim in our thoughts
 
  and to work away distracted as little as possible by the butchery
 
  and by the starvation that is making this side of the world a
 
  shambles and a wilderness. There is hardly a country on the Continent
 
  where people are not literally starving to death, and in many
 
  of them by hundreds of thousands; and this state of things is
 
  going to continue for a good many years after the war. God knows
 
  we (I mean the American people) are doing everything we can to
 
  alleviate it but there is so much more to be done than any group
 
  of forces can possibly do, that I have a feeling that we have
 
  hardly touched the borders of the great problem itself. Of course
 
  here in London we are away from all that. In spite of the rations
 
  we get quite enough to eat and it's as good as it is usually
 
  in England, but we have no right to complain. Of course we are
 
  subject to air raids, and the wise air people here think that
 
  early next spring we are going to be bombarded with thousands
 
  of aeroplanes, and with new kinds of bombs and gases in a well-organized
 
  effort to try actually to destroy London. Possibly that will
 
  come; we must simply take our chance, every man sticking to his
 
  job. Already the slate shingles on my roof have been broken,
 
  and bricks have been knocked down my chimney; the skylight was
 
  hit and glass fell down all through the halls, and the nose of
 
  a shrapnel shell, weighing eight pounds, fell just in front of
 
  my doorway and rolled in my area. This is the sort of thing we
 
  incidentally get, not of course from the enemy directly, but
 
  from the British guns in London which shoot these things at German
 
  aeroplanes. What goes up must come down. Between our own defences
 
  and the enemy, God knows which will kill us first!
 
  <br><br>In spite of all this I put my innocent head on my pillow every
 
  night and get a good night's sleep after the bombing is done,
 
  and I thank Heaven that nothing interrupts my sleep. This, and
 
  a little walking, which is all I get time to do in these foggy
 
  days, constitute my life outdoors and precious little of it is
 
  outdoors.
 
  <br><br>Then on every block that I know of in London there is a hospital
 
  or supply place and the ambulances are bringing the poor fellows
 
  in all the time. We don't get any gasolene to ride so we have
 
  to walk. We don't get any white bread so we have to eat stuff
 
  made of flour and corn meal ground so fine that it isn't good.
 
  While everybody gets a little thinner, the universal opinion
 
  is that they also get a little better, and nobody is going to
 
  die here of hunger.
 
  <br><br>We feel a little more cheerful about the submarines than we
 
  did some time ago. For some reason they are not getting so many
 
  ships. One reason, I am glad to believe, is that they are getting
 
  caught themselves. If I could remember all the stories that I
 
  hear of good fighting with the submarines I could keep you up
 
  two nights when I get home, but in these days one big thing after
 
  another crowds so in men's minds that the Lord knows if, when
 
  I get home, I shall remember anything.
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Always heartily yours,
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>.
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To the President</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>London, December 3, 1917.
 
  <br><br>DEAR MR. PRESIDENT:
 
  <br><br>. . . Some of the British military men in London are not hopeful
 
  of an early end of the war nor even cheerful about the result.
 
  They are afraid of the war-weariness that overcame Russia and
 
  gave Italy a setback. They say the military task, though long
 
  and slow and hard, can be done if everybody will pull together
 
  and keep at the job without weariness<I>-be done by our help.
 
  </I>But they have fits of fear of France. They are discouraged
 
  by the greater part of Lord Lansdowne's letter.(<A NAME="n178"></A><A
 
  HREF="Pagenotes.htm#178">178</A>) I myself do not set great value
 
  on this military feeling in London, for the British generals
 
  in France do not share it. Lord French once said to me and General
 
  Robertson, too, that when they feel despondent in London, they
 
  go to the front and get cheered up. But it does seem to be a
 
  long job. Evidently the Germans mean to fight to the last man
 
  unless they can succeed in inducing the Allies to meet them to
 
  talk it over without naming their terms in advance. That is what
 
  Lord Lansdowne favours, and no public outgiving by any prominent
 
  man in England has called forth such a storm of protest since
 
  the war began. I think I see the genesis of his thought, and
 
  it is this: there is nothing in his letter and there was nothing
 
  in the half dozen or more rather long conversations that I have
 
  had with him on other subjects to show that he has the slightest
 
  conception of democracy as a social creed or as a political system.
 
  He is, I think, the most complete aristocrat that I have ever
 
  met. He doesn't see the war at all as a struggle between democracy
 
  and its opposite. He sees it merely as a struggle between Germany
 
  and the Allies; and inferentially he is perfectly willing the
 
  Kaiser should remain in power. He is of course a patriotic man
 
  and a man of great cultivation. But he doesn't see the deeper
 
  meaning of the conflict. Add to this defect of understanding,
 
  a long period of bad health and a lasting depression because
 
  of the loss of his son, and his call to the war-weary ceases
 
  to be a surprise.
 
  <br><br>I am, dear Mr. President,
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Sincerely yours,
 
    <br><br>WALTER H. PAGE.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>.
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Arthur W. Page</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>American Embassy,<BR>
 
  London, December 23, 1917.
 
  <br><br>DEAR ARTHUR:
 
  <br><br>I sent you a Christmas cable yesterday for everybody. That's
 
  about all I can send in these days of slow mail and restricted
 
  shipping and enormously high prices; and you gave all the girls
 
  each $100 for me, for the babies and themselves? That'll show
 
  'em that at least we haven't forgotten them. Forgotten? Your
 
  mother and I are always talking of the glad day when we can go
 
  home and live among them. We get as homesick as small boys their
 
  first month at a boarding school. Do you remember the day I left
 
  you at Lawrenceville, a forlorn and lonely kid? It's like that.
 
  <br><br>A wave of depression hangs over the land like a London fog.
 
  And everybody on this tired-out side of the world shows a disposition
 
  to lean too heavily on us---to depend on us so completely that
 
  the fear arises that they may unconsciously relax their own utmost
 
  efforts when we begin to fight. Yet they can't in the least afford
 
  to relax, and, when the time comes, I dare say they will not.
 
  Yet the plain truth is, the French may give out next year for
 
  lack of men. I do not mean that they will quit, but that their
 
  fighting strength will have passed its maximum and that they
 
  will be able to play only a sort of second part. Except the British
 
  and the French, there's no nation in Europe worth a tinker's
 
  damn when you come to the real scratch. The whole continent is
 
  rotten or tyrannical or yellow-dog. I wouldn't give Long Island
 
  or Moore County for the whole of continental Europe, with its
 
  kings and itching palms.
 
  <br><br>. . . Waves of depression and of hope---if not of elation---come
 
  and go. I am told, and I think truly, that waves of weariness
 
  come in London far oftener and more depressingly than anywhere
 
  else in the Kingdom. There is no sign nor fear that the British
 
  will give up; they'll hold on till the end. Winston Churchill
 
  said to me last night: &quot;We can hold on till next year. But
 
  after 1918, it'll be your fight. We'll have to depend on you.&quot;
 
  I told him that such a remark might well be accepted in some
 
  quarters as a British surrender. Then he came up to the scratch:
 
  &quot;Surrender? Never.&quot; But I fear we need---in some practical
 
  and non-ostentatious way---now and then to remind all these European
 
  folk that we get no particular encouragement by being unduly
 
  leaned on.
 
  <br><br>It is, however, the weariest Christmas in all British annals,
 
  certainly since the Napoleonic wars. The untoward event after
 
  the British advance toward Cambrai caused the retirement of six
 
  British generals and deepened the depression here. Still I can
 
  see it now passing. Even a little victory will bring back a wave
 
  of cheerfulness.
 
  <br><br>Depression or elation show equally the undue strain that British
 
  nerves are under. I dare say nobody is entirely normal. News
 
  of many sorts can now be circulated only by word of mouth. The
 
  queerest stories are whispered about and find at least temporary
 
  credence. For instance: The report has been going around that
 
  the revolution that took place in Portugal the other day was
 
  caused by the Germans (likely enough); that it was a monarchical
 
  movement and that the Germans were going to put the King back
 
  on the throne as soon as the war ended. Sensation-mongers appear
 
  at every old-woman's knitting circle. And all this has an effect
 
  on conduct. Two young wives of noble officers now in France have
 
  just run away with two other young noblemen---to the scandal
 
  of a large part of good society in London. It is universally
 
  said that the morals of more hitherto good people are wrecked
 
  by the strain put upon women by the absence of their husbands
 
  than was ever before heard of. Everybody is overworked. Fewer
 
  people are literally truthful than ever before. Men and women
 
  break down and fall out of working ranks continuously. The number
 
  of men in the government who have disappeared from public view
 
  is amazing, the number that would like to disappear is still
 
  greater---from sheer overstrain. The Prime Minister is tired.
 
  Bonar Law in a long conference that Crosby and I had with him
 
  yesterday wearily ran all round a circle rather than hit a plain
 
  proposition with a clear decision. Mr. Balfour has kept his house
 
  from overwork a few days every recent week. I lunched with Mr.
 
  Asquith yesterday; even he seemed jaded; and Mrs. Asquith assured
 
  me that &quot;everything is going to the devil damned fast.&quot;
 
  Some conspicuous men who have always been sober have taken to
 
  drink. The very few public dinners that are held are served with
 
  ostentatious meagreness to escape criticism. I attended one last
 
  week at which there was no bread, no butter, no sugar served.
 
  All of which doesn't mean that the world here is going to the
 
  bad---only that it moves backward and forward by emotions; and
 
  this is normally a most unemotional race. Overwork and the loss
 
  of sons and friends---the list of the lost grows---always make
 
  an abnormal strain. The churches are fuller than ever before.
 
  So, too, are the &quot;parlours&quot; of the fortune-tellers.
 
  So also the theatres---in the effort to forget one's self. There
 
  are afternoon dances for young officers at home on leave:. the
 
  curtains are drawn and the music is muffled. More marriages take
 
  place---blind and maimed, as well as the young fellows just going
 
  to France---than were ever celebrated in any year within men's
 
  memory. Verse-writing is rampant. I have received enough odes
 
  and sonnets celebrating the Great Republic and the Great President
 
  to fill a folio volume. Several American Y. M. C. A. workers
 
  lately turned rampant Pacifists and had to be sent home. Colonial
 
  soldiers and now and then an American sailor turn up at our Y.
 
  M. C. A. huts as full as a goat and swear after the event that
 
  they never did such a thing before. Emotions and strain everywhere!
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Affectionately,
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
 
<br><br>.
 
 
<br><br>In March Page, a very weary man---as these letters indicate---took
 
a brief holiday at St. Ives, on the coast of Cornwall. As he gazed
 
out on the Atlantic, the yearning for home, for the sandhills
 
and the pine trees of North Carolina, again took possession of
 
his soul. Yet it is evident, from a miscellaneous group of letters
 
written at this time, that his mind revelled in a variety of subjects,
 
ranging all the way from British food and vegetables to the settlement
 
of the war and from secret diplomacy to literary style.
 
 
<br><br>.
 
 
<BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Mrs. Charles G. Loring</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>St. Ives, Cornwall, March 3, 1918.
 
  <br><br>DEAR KITTY:
 
  <br><br>Your mother of course needed a rest away from London after
 
  the influenza got done with her; and I discovered that I had
 
  gone stale. So she and I and the golf clubs came here yesterday---as
 
  near to the sunlit land of Uncle Sam as you can well get on this
 
  island. We look across the ocean---at least out into it---in
 
  your direction, but I must confess that Labrador is not in sight.
 
  The place is all right, the hotel uncommonly good, but it's Greenlandish
 
  in its temperature---a very cold wind blowing. The golf clubs
 
  lean up against the wall and curse the weather. But we are away
 
  from the hordes of people and will have a little quiet here.
 
  It's as quiet as any far-off place by the sea, and it's clean.
 
  London is the dirtiest town in the world.
 
  <br><br>By the way that picture of Chud came (by Col. Honey) along
 
  with Alice Page's adorable little photograph. As for the wee
 
  chick, I see how you are already beginning to get a lot of fun
 
  with her. And you'll have more and more as she gets bigger. Give
 
  her my love and see what she'll say. You won't get so lonesome,
 
  dear Kitty, with little Alice; and I can't keep from thinking
 
  as well as hoping that the war will not go on as long as it sometimes
 
  seems that it must. The utter collapse of Russia has given Germany
 
  a vast victory on that side and it may turn out that this will
 
  make an earlier peace possible than would otherwise have come.
 
  And the Germans may be---in fact, must be, very short of some
 
  of the essentials of war in their metals or in cotton. They are
 
  in a worse internal plight than has been made known, I am sure.
 
  I can't keep from hoping that peace may come this year. Of course,
 
  my guess may be wrong; but everything I hear points in the direction
 
  of my timid prediction.
 
  <br><br>Bless you and little Alice,
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Affectionately,
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
 
<br><br>,
 
 
<br><br>Page's oldest son was building a house and laying out a garden
 
at Pinehurst, North Carolina, a fact which explains the horticultural
 
and gastronomical suggestions contained in the following letter:
 
 
<br><br>.
 
 
<BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Ralph W. Page</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>Tregenna Castle Hotel, <BR>
 
  St. Ives, Cornwall, England, <BR>
 
  March 4, 1918.
 
  <br><br>DEAR RALPH:
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Asparagus<BR>
 
    Celery<BR>
 
    Tomatoes<BR>
 
    Butter Beans<BR>
 
    Peas<BR>
 
    Sweet Corn<BR>
 
    Sweet Potatoes<BR>
 
    Squash---the sort you cook in the rind<BR>
 
    Cantaloupe<BR>
 
    Peanuts<BR>
 
    Egg Plant<BR>
 
    Figs<BR>
 
    Peaches<BR>
 
    Pecans<BR>
 
    Scuppernongs<BR>
 
    Peanut-bacon, in glass jars<BR>
 
    Razor-back hams, divinely cured<BR>
 
    Raspberries<BR>
 
    Strawberries<BR>
 
    etc. etc. etc. etc.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>You see, having starved here for five years, my mind, as soon
 
  as it gets free, runs on these things and my mouth waters. All
 
  the foregoing things that grow can be put up in pretty glass
 
  jars, too.
 
  <br><br>Add cream, fresh butter, buttermilk, fresh eggs. Only one
 
  of all the things on page one grows with any flavour here at
 
  all---strawberries; and only one or two more grow at all. Darned
 
  if I don't have to confront Cabbage every day. I haven't yet
 
  surrendered, and I never shall unless the Germans get us. Cabbage
 
  and Germans belong together: God made 'em both the same stinking
 
  day.
 
  <br><br>Now get a bang-up gardener no matter what he costs. Get him
 
  started. Put it up to him to start toward the foregoing programme,
 
  to be reached in (say) three years ---two---if possible. He must
 
  learn to grow these things absolutely better than they are now
 
  grown anywhere on earth. He must get the best seed. He must get
 
  muck out of the swamp, manure from somewhere, etc. etc. He must
 
  have the supreme flavour in each thing. Let him take room enough
 
  for each---plenty of room. He doesn't want much room for any
 
  one thing, but good spaces between.
 
  <br><br>This will be the making of the world. Talk about fairs? If
 
  he fails to get every prize he must pay a fine for every one
 
  that goes to anybody else.
 
  <br><br>How we'll live! I can live on these things and nothing else.
 
  But (just to match this home outfit) I'll order tea from Japan,
 
  ripe olives from California, grape fruit. and oranges from Florida.
 
  Then poor folks will hang around, hoping to be invited to dinner!
 
  <br><br>Plant a few fig trees now; and pecans? Any good?
 
  <br><br>The world is going to come pretty close to starvation not
 
  only during the war but for five or perhaps ten years afterward.
 
  An acre or two <I>done </I>right---divinely right ---will save
 
  us. An acre or two on my land in Moore County ---no king can
 
  live half so well if the ground be got ready this spring and
 
  such a start made as one natural-born gardener can make. The
 
  old Russian I had in Garden City was no slouch. Do you remember
 
  his little patch back of the house? That far, far, far excelled
 
  anything in all Europe. And you'll recall that we jarred 'em
 
  and had good things all winter.
 
  <br><br>This St. Ives is the finest spot in England that I've ever
 
  seen. To-day has been as good as any March day you ever had in
 
  North Carolina---a fine air, clear sunshine, a beautiful sea---looking
 
  out toward the United States; and this country grows---the best
 
  golf links that I've ever seen in the world, and nothing else
 
  worth speaking of but ---tin. Tin mines are all about here. Tin
 
  and golf are good crops in their way, but they don't feed the
 
  belly of man. As matters stand the only people that have fit
 
  things to eat now in all Europe are the American troops in France,
 
  and their food comes out of tins chiefly. Ach! Heaven! In these
 
  islands man is amphibious and carnivorous. It rains every day
 
  and meat, meat, meat is the only human idea of food. God bless
 
  us, one acre of the Sandhills is worth a vast estate of tin mines
 
  and golf links to feed the innards of
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Yours affectionately,
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>P. S. And cornfield peas, of just the. right rankness, cooked
 
  with just the right dryness.
 
  <br><br>When I become a citizen of the Sandhills I propose to induce
 
  some benevolent lover of good food to give substantial prizes
 
  to the best grower of each of these things and to the best cook
 
  of each and to the person who serves each of them most daintily.
 
  <br><br>We can can and glass jar these things and let none be put
 
  on the market without the approval of an expert employed by the
 
  community. Then we can get a reputation for Sandhill Food and
 
  charge double price.
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>.
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Arthur W. Page</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>St. Ives, Cornwall,<BR>
 
  England, March 8, 1918.
 
  <br><br>DEAR ARTHUR:
 
  <br><br>Your letter, written from the University Club, is just come.
 
  It makes a very distinct impression on my mind which my own conclusions
 
  and fears have long confirmed. Let me put it at its worst and
 
  in very bald terms: The Great White Chief is at bottom pacifist,
 
  has always been so and is so now. Of course I do not mean a pacifist
 
  at any price, certainly not a cowardly pacifist. But (looked
 
  at theoretically) war is, of course, an absurd way of settling
 
  any quarrel, an irrational way. Men and nations are wasteful,
 
  cruel, pigheaded fools to indulge in it. Quite true. But war
 
  is also the only means of adding to a nation's territory the
 
  territory of other nations which they do not wish to sell or
 
  to give up---the robbers' only way to get more space or to get
 
  booty. This last explains this war. Every Hohenzollern (except
 
  the present Emperor's father, who reigned only a few months)
 
  since Frederick the Great has added to Prussian and German area
 
  of rule. Every one, therefore, as he comes to the throne, feels
 
  an obligation to make his addition to the Empire. For this the
 
  wars of Prussia with Austria, with Denmark, with France were
 
  brought on. They succeeded and won the additions that old William
 
  I made to the Empire. Now William II must make <I>his </I>addition.
 
  He prepared for more than forty years; the nation prepared before
 
  he came to the throne and his whole reign has been given to making
 
  sure that he was ready. It's a robber's raid. Of course, the
 
  German case has been put so as to direct attention from this
 
  bald fact.
 
  <br><br>Now the philosophical pacifists---I don't mean the cowardly,
 
  yellow-dog ones---have never quite seen the war in this aspect.
 
  They regard it as a dispute about something---about trade, about
 
  more seaboard, about this or that, whereas it is only a robber's
 
  adventure. They want other people's property. They want money,
 
  treasure, land, indemnities, minerals, raw materials; and they
 
  set out to take them.
 
  <br><br>Now confusing this character of the war with some sort of
 
  rational dispute about something, the pacifists try in every
 
  way to stop it, so that the &quot;issue&quot; may be reasoned
 
  out, debated, discussed, negotiated. Surely the President tried
 
  to reach peace---tried as hard and as long as the people would
 
  allow him. The Germans argued away time with him while they got
 
  their submarine fleet built. Then they carried out the programme
 
  they had always had in mind and had never thought of abandoning.
 
  Now they wish to gain more time, to slacken the efforts of the
 
  Allies, if possible to separate them by asking for &quot;discussions&quot;
 
  ---peace by &quot;negotiation.&quot; When you are about to kill
 
  the robber, he cries out, &quot;For God's sake, let's discuss
 
  the question between us. We can come to terms.&quot;---Now here's
 
  where the danger comes from the philosophical pacifist---from
 
  any man who does not clearly understand the nature of the war
 
  and of the enemy. To discuss the difference between us is so
 
  very reasonable in sound---so very reasonable in fact if there
 
  were a discussable difference. It is a programme that would always
 
  be in order except with a burglar or a robber.
 
  <br><br>The yet imperfect understanding of the war and of the nature
 
  of the German in the United States, especially at Washington---more
 
  especially in the White House---herein lies the danger.
 
  <br><br>. . . This little rest down here is a success. The weather
 
  is a disappointment---windy and cold. But to be away from London
 
  and away from folks---that's much. Shoecraft is very good.(<A
 
  NAME="n179"></A><A HREF="Pagenotes.htm#179">179</A>) He sends
 
  us next to nothing. Almost all we've got is an invitation to
 
  lunch with Their Majesties and they've been good enough to put
 
  that off. It's a far-off country, very fine, I'm sure in summer,
 
  and with most beautiful golf links. The hill is now so windy
 
  that no sane man can play there.
 
  <br><br>We're enjoying the mere quiet. And your mother is quite well
 
  again.
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Affectionately,
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>.
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Mrs. Charles G. Loring</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>St. Ives, Cornwall,<BR>
 
  March 10, 1918.
 
  <br><br>DEAR KITTY:
 
  <br><br>A week here. No news. Shoecraft says we've missed nothing
 
  in London. What we came for we've got: your mother's quite well.
 
  She climbs these high hills quite spryly. We've had a remarkable
 
  week in this respect we haven't carried on a conversation with
 
  any human being but ourselves. I don't think any such thing has
 
  ever happened before. I can stand a week, perhaps a fortnight
 
  of this now. But I don't care for it for any long period. At
 
  the bottom of this high and steep hill is the quaintest little
 
  town I ever saw. There are some streets so narrow that when a
 
  donkey cart comes along the urchins all have to run to the next
 
  corner or into doors. There is no side walk, of course; and the
 
  donkey cart takes the whole room between the houses. Artists
 
  take to the town, and they have funny little studios down by
 
  the water front in tiny houses built of stone in pieces big enough
 
  to construct a tidewater front. Imagine stone walls made of stone,
 
  each weighing tons, built into little houses about as big as
 
  your little back garden! There's one fellow here (an artist)
 
  whom I used to know in New York, so small has the world become!
 
  <br><br>On another hill behind us is a triangular stone monument to
 
  John Knill. He was once mayor of the town. When he died in 1782,
 
  he left money to the town. If the town is to keep the money (as
 
  it has) the Mayor must once in every five years form a procession
 
  and march up to this monument. There ten girls, natives of the
 
  town, and two widows must dance around the monument to the playing
 
  of a fiddle and a drum, the girls dressed in white. This ceremony
 
  has gone on, once in five years, all this time and the town has
 
  old Knill's money !
 
  <br><br>Your mother and I---though we are neither girls nor widows---danced
 
  around it this morning, wondering what sort of curmudgeon old
 
  John Knill was.
 
  <br><br>Don't you see how easily we fall into an idle mood?
 
  <br><br>Well, here's a photograph of little Alice looking up at me
 
  from the table where I write---a good, sweet face she has.
 
  <br><br>And you'll never get another letter from me in a time and
 
  from a place whereof there is so little to tell.
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Affectionately, dear Kitty,
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>.
 
  <P ALIGN=CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Ralph W. Page</FONT></I>
 
  <br><br>Tregenna Castle Hotel, <BR>
 
  St. Ives, Cornwall,<BR>
 
  March 12, 1918.
 
  <br><br>MY DEAR RALPH:
 
  <br><br>Arthur has sent me Gardiner's 37-page sketch of American-British
 
  Concords and Discords---a remarkable sketch; and he has reminded
 
  me that your summer plan is to elaborate (into a popular style)
 
  your sketch of the same subject. You and Gardiner went over the
 
  same ground, each in a very good fashion. That's a fascinating
 
  task, and it opens up a wholly new vista of our History and of
 
  Anglo-Saxon, democratic history. Much lies ahead of that. And
 
  all this puts it in my mind to write you a little discourse on
 
  <I>style. </I>Gardiner has no style. He put his facts down much
 
  as he would have noted on a blue print the facts about an engineering
 
  project that he sketched. The style of your article, which has
 
  much to be said for it as a magazine article, is not the best
 
  style for a book.
 
  <br><br>Now, this whole question of style---well, it's the gist of
 
  good writing. There's no really effective writing without it.
 
  Especially is this true of historical writing. Look at X Y Z's
 
  writings. He knows his American history and has written much
 
  on it. He's written it as an Ohio blacksmith shoes a horse---not
 
  a touch of literary value in it all; all dry as dust---as dry
 
  as old Bancroft.
 
  <br><br>Style is good breeding---and art---in writing. It consists
 
  of the arrangement of your matter, first; then, more, of the
 
  gait; the manner and the manners of your expressing it. Work
 
  every group of facts, naturally and logically grouped to begin
 
  with, into a climax. Work every group up as a sculptor works
 
  out his idea or a painter, each group complete in itself. Throw
 
  out any superfluous facts or any merely minor facts that prevent
 
  the orderly working up of the group---that prevent or mar the
 
  effect you wish to present.
 
  <br><br>Then, when you've got a group thus presented, go over what
 
  you've made of it, to make sure you've used your material and
 
  its arrangement to the best effect, taking away merely extraneous
 
  or superfluous or distracting facts, here and there adding concrete
 
  illustrations---putting in a convincing detail here, and there
 
  a touch of colour.
 
  <br><br>Then go over it for your vocabulary. See that you use no word
 
  in a different meaning than it was used 100 years ago and will
 
  be used 100 years hence. You wish to use only the permanent words---words,
 
  too, that will be understood to carry the same meaning to English
 
  readers in every part of the world. Your vocabulary must be chosen
 
  from the permanent, solid, stable parts of the language.
 
  <br><br>Then see that no sentence contains a hint of obscurity.
 
  <br><br>Then go over the words you use to see if they be the best.
 
  Don't fall into merely current phrases. If you have a long word,
 
  see if a native short one can be put in its place which will
 
  be more natural and stronger. Avoid a Latin vocabulary and use
 
  a plain English one---short words instead of long ones.
 
  <br><br>Most of all, use idioms---English idioms of force. Say an
 
  agreement was &quot;come to.&quot; Don't say it was &quot;consummated.&quot;
 
  For the difference between idioms and a Latin style, compare
 
  Lincoln with George Washington. One's always interesting and
 
  convincing. The other is dull in spite of all his good sense.
 
  How most folk do, misuse and waste words!
 
  <br><br>Freeman went too far in his use of one-syllable words. It
 
  became an affectation. But he is the only man I can think of
 
  that ever did go too far in that direction. X would have written
 
  a great history if he had had the natural use of idioms. As it
 
  is, he has good sense and no style; and his book isn't half so
 
  interesting as it would have been if he had some style---some
 
  proper value of short, clear-cut words that mean only one thing
 
  and that leave no vagueness.
 
  <br><br>You'll get a good style if you practice it. It is in your
 
  blood and temperament and way of saying things. But it's a high
 
  art and must be laboriously cultivated.
 
  <BLOCKQUOTE>
 
    <br><br>Yours affectionately,
 
    <br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
 
<br><br>.
 
 
<br><br>This glimpse of a changing and chastened England appears in
 
a letter of this period:
 
 
<br><br>&nbsp;
 
 
<BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br>The disposition shown by an endless number of such incidents
 
  is something more than a disposition of gratitude of a people
 
  helped when they are hard pressed. All these things show the
 
  changed and changing Englishman. It has already come to him that
 
  he may be weaker than he had thought himself and that he may
 
  need friends more than he had once imagined; and, if he must
 
  have helpers and friends, he'd rather have his own kinsmen. He's
 
  a queer &quot;cuss,&quot; this Englishman. But he isn't a liar
 
  nor a coward nor any sort of &quot;a yellow dog.&quot; He's true,
 
  and he never runs---a possible hero any day, and, when heroic,
 
  modest and quiet and graceful. The trouble with him has been
 
  that he got great world power too easily. In the times when he
 
  exploited the world for his own enrichment, there were no other
 
  successful exploiters. It became an easy game to him. He organized
 
  sea traffic and sea power. Of course he became rich---far, far
 
  richer than anybody else, and, therefore, content with himself.
 
  He has, therefore, kept much of his mediaeval impedimenta, his
 
  dukes and marquesses and all that they imply---his outworn ceremonies
 
  and his mediaeval disregard of his social inferiors. Nothing
 
  is well done in this Kingdom for the big public, but only for
 
  the classes. The railway stations have no warm waiting rooms.
 
  The people pace the platform till the train comes, and milord
 
  sits snugly wrapt up in his carriage till his footman announces
 
  the approach of the train. And occasional discontent is relieved
 
  by emigration to the Colonies. If any man becomes weary of his
 
  restrictions he may go to Australia and become a gentleman. The
 
  remarkable loyalty of the Colonies has in it something of a servant's
 
  devotion to his old master.
 
  <br><br>Now this trying time of war and the threat and danger of extinction
 
  are bringing---have in fact already brought ---the conviction
 
  that many changes must come. The first sensible talk about popular
 
  education ever heard here is just now beginning. Many a gentleman
 
  has made up his mind to try to do with less than seventeen servants
 
  for the rest of his life since he now has to do with less. Privilege,
 
  on which so large a part of life here rests, is already pretty
 
  well shot to pieces. A lot of old baggage will never be recovered
 
  after this war: that's certain. During a little after-dinner
 
  speech in a club not long ago I indulged in a pleasantry about
 
  excessive impedimenta. Lord Derby, Minister of War and a bluff
 
  and honest aristocrat, sat near me and he whispered to me---&quot;That's
 
  me.&quot; &quot;Yes,&quot; I said, &quot;that's you,&quot; and
 
  the group about us made merry at the jest. The meaning of this
 
  is, they now joke about what was the most solemn thing in life
 
  three years ago.
 
  <br><br>None of this conveys the idea I am trying to explain---the
 
  change in the English point of view and outlook---a half century's
 
  change in less than three years, radical and fundamental change,
 
  too. The mother of the Duke of X came to see me this afternoon,
 
  hobbling on her sticks and feeble, to tell me of a radiant letter
 
  she had received from her granddaughter who has been in Washington
 
  visiting the Spring Rices. &quot;It's all very wonderful,&quot;
 
  said the venerable lady, &quot; and my granddaughter actually
 
  heard the President make a speech!&quot; Now, knowing this lady
 
  and knowing her son, the Duke, and knowing how this girl, his
 
  daughter, has been brought up, I dare swear that three years
 
  ago not one of them would have crossed the street to hear any
 
  President that ever lived. They've simply become different people.
 
  They were very genuine before. They are very genuine now.
 
  <br><br>It is this steadfastness in them that gives me sound hope
 
  for the future. They don't forget sympathy or help or friendship.
 
  Our going into the war has eliminated the Japanese question.
 
  It has shifted the virtual control of the world to English-speaking
 
  peoples. It will bring into the best European minds the American
 
  ideal of service.
 
  <br><br><FONT FACE="Times">It will, in fact, give us the lead and
 
  make the English in the long run our willing followers and allies.
 
  I don't mean that we shall always have plain sailing. But I do
 
  mean that the direction of events for the next fifty or one hundred
 
  years has now been determined.</FONT></BLOCKQUOTE>
 
 
<br><br><CENTER><TABLE BORDER="0" CELLSPACING="1" CELLPADDING="5"
 
WIDTH="322">
 
  <TR>
 
    <TD WIDTH="36%" VALIGN="TOP">
 
      <P ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="images/Page23.jpg"><IMG SRC="thumbnails/Page23tn.jpg"
 
      WIDTH="124" HEIGHT="144" ALIGN="BOTTOM" BORDER="1" ></A></TD>
 
    <TD WIDTH="64%" VALIGN="TOP">
 
      <P ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="images/Page24.jpg"><IMG SRC="thumbnails/Page24tn.jpg"
 
      WIDTH="101" HEIGHT="144" ALIGN="BOTTOM" BORDER="1" ></A></TD>
 
  </TR>
 
  <TR>
 
    <TD WIDTH="36%" VALIGN="TOP">
 
      <P ALIGN=CENTER><B><FONT COLOR="#0000ff" SIZE="+1" FACE="Times">Fig.
 
      23. </FONT></B><FONT COLOR="#0000ff" SIZE="+1" FACE="Times">Lord
 
      Robert Cecil, Minister of Blockade, 1916-18, Assistant Secretary
 
      of State for Foreign Affairs, 1918</FONT></TD>
 
    <TD WIDTH="64%" VALIGN="TOP">
 
      <P ALIGN=CENTER><B><FONT COLOR="#0000ff" SIZE="+1" FACE="Times">Fig.
 
      24.</FONT></B><FONT COLOR="#0000ff" SIZE="+1" FACE="Times"> General
 
      John J. Pershing, Commander-in-Chief of the American Expeditionary
 
      Force in the Great War</FONT></TD>
 
  </TR>
 
</TABLE></CENTER>
 
 
<br><br>Yet Page found one stolid opposition to his attempts to establish
 
the friendliest relations between the two peoples. That offish
 
attitude of the Washington Administration, to which reference
 
has already been made, did not soften with the progress of events.
 
Another experience now again brought out President Wilson's coldness
 
toward his allies. About this time many rather queer Americans
 
---some of the &quot; international&quot; breed---were coming
 
to England on more or less official missions. Page was somewhat
 
humiliated by these excursions; he knew that his country possessed
 
an almost unlimited supply of vivid speakers, filled with zeal
 
for the allied cause, whose influence, if they could be induced
 
to cross the Atlantic, would put new spirit into the British.
 
The idea of having a number of distinguished Americans come to
 
England and tell the British public about the United States and
 
especially about the American preparations for war, was one that
 
now occupied his thoughts. In June, 1917, he wrote his old friend
 
Dr. Wallace Buttrick, extending an invitation to visit Great Britain
 
as a guest of the British Government. Dr. Buttrick made a great
 
success; his speeches drew large crowds and proved a source of
 
inspiration to the British masses. So successful were they, indeed,
 
that the British Government desired that other Americans of similar
 
type should come and spread the message. In November, therefore,
 
Dr. Buttrick returned to the United States for the purpose of
 
organizing such a committee. Among the eminent Americans whom
 
he persuaded to give several months of their time to this work
 
of heartening our British allies were Mr. George E. Vincent, President
 
of the Rockefeller Foundation, Mr. Harry Pratt Judson, President
 
of Chicago University, Mr. Charles R. Van Hise, President of the
 
University of Wisconsin, Mr. Edwin A. Alderman, President of the
 
University of Virginia, Mr. Harry Emerson Fosdick, and Bishop
 
Lawrence of Massachusetts. It was certainly a distinguished group,
 
but it was the gentleman selected to be its head that gave it
 
almost transcendent importance in the eyes of the British Government.
 
This was ex-President William, H. Taft. The British lay greater
 
emphasis upon official rank than do Americans, and the fact that
 
an ex-President of the United States was to head this delegation
 
made it almost an historic event. Mr. Taft was exceedingly busy,
 
but he expressed his willingness to give up all his engagements
 
for several months and to devote his energies to enlightening
 
the British public about America and its purposes in the war.
 
An official invitation was sent him from London and accepted.
 
 
<br><br>Inasmuch as Mr. Taft was an ex-President and a representative
 
of the political party opposed to the one in power, he thought
 
it only courteous that he call upon Mr. Wilson, explain the purpose
 
of his mission, and obtain his approval. He therefore had an interview
 
with the President at the White House; the date was December 12,
 
1917. As soon as Mr. Wilson heard of the proposed visit to Great
 
Britain he showed signs of irritation. He at once declared that
 
it met with his strongest disapproval. When Mr. Taft remarked
 
that the result of such an enterprise would be to draw Great Britain
 
and the United States more closely together, Mr. Wilson replied
 
that he seriously questioned the desirability of drawing the two
 
countries any more closely together than they already were. He
 
was opposed to putting the United States in a position of seeming
 
in any way to be involved with British policy. There were divergencies
 
of purpose, he said, and there were features of the British policy
 
in this war of which he heartily disapproved. The motives of the
 
United States in this war, the President continued, &quot;were
 
unselfish, but the motives of Great Britain seemed to him to be
 
of a less unselfish character.&quot; Mr. Wilson cited the treaty
 
between Great Britain and Italy as a sample of British statesmanship
 
which he regarded as proving this contention. The President's
 
reference to this Italian treaty has considerable historic value;
 
there has been much discussion as to when the President first
 
learned of its existence, but it is apparent from this conversation
 
with ex-President Taft that he must have known about it on December
 
12, 1917, for President Wilson based his criticism of British
 
policy largely upon this Italian convention.(<A NAME="n180"></A><A
 
HREF="Pagenotes.htm#180">180</A>)
 
 
<br><br>The President showed more and more feeling about the matter
 
as the discussion continued. &quot;There are too many Englishmen,&quot;
 
he said, &quot;in this country and in Washington now and I have
 
asked the British Ambassador to have some of them sent home.&quot;
 
 
<br><br>Mr. Wilson referred to the jealousy of France at the close
 
relations which were apparently developing between Great Britain
 
and the United States. This was another reason, he thought, why
 
it was unwise to make the bonds between them any tighter. He also
 
called Mr. Taft's attention to the fact that there were certain
 
elements in the United States which were opposed to Great Britain---this
 
evidently being a reference to the Germans and the Irish---and
 
he therefore believed that any conspicuous attempts to increase
 
the friendliness of the two countries for each other would arouse
 
antagonism and resentment.
 
 
<br><br>As Mr. Taft was leaving he informed Mr. Wilson that the plan
 
for his visit and that of the other speakers had originated with
 
the American Ambassador to Great Britain. This, however, did not
 
improve the President's temper.
 
 
<br><br>&quot;Page,&quot; said the President, &quot;is really an Englishman
 
and I have to discount whatever he says about the situation in
 
Great Britain.&quot;
 
 
<br><br>And then he added, &quot;I think you ought not to go, and the
 
same applies to the other members of the party. I would like you
 
to make my attitude on this question known to those having the
 
matter in charge.&quot;
 
 
<br><br>Despite this rebuff Dr. Buttrick and Mr. Taft were reluctant
 
to give up the plan. An appeal was therefore made to Colonel House.
 
Colonel House at once said that the proposed visit was an excellent
 
thing and that he would make a personal appeal to Mr. Wilson in
 
the hope of changing his mind. A few days afterward Colonel House
 
called up Dr. Buttrick. and informed him that he had not succeeded.
 
&quot;I am sorry,&quot; wrote Colonel House to Page, &quot;that
 
the Buttrick speaking programme has turned out as it has. The
 
President was decidedly opposed to it and referred to it with
 
some feeling.&quot;
 
 
<P ALIGN=CENTER><HR>
 
 
<BLOCKQUOTE>
 
  <br><br><FONT SIZE="+1"><IMG SRC="thumbnails/2b.gif" WIDTH="25" HEIGHT="24"
 
  ALIGN="MIDDLE" BORDER="0" ><A HREF="Page16.htm">Chapter
 
  Twenty-Five</A></FONT>
 
  <br><br><FONT SIZE="+1"><IMG SRC="thumbnails/2b.gif" WIDTH="25" HEIGHT="24"
 
  ALIGN="MIDDLE" BORDER="0" ><A HREF="PageTC.htm#TC">Table
 
  of Contents</A></FONT>
 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
 
 
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 <TITLE>Burton J. Hendrick. The Life and Letters of Walter H. Page. 1922. Chapters 23-4.</TITLE>

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<IMG SRC="images/sig.gif" WIDTH="288" HEIGHT="126" ALIGN="BOTTOM" BORDER="0" > <P ALIGN=CENTER>CHAPTER XXIII <P ALIGN=CENTER>PAGE---THE MAN

THE entrance of America into the war, followed by the successful promotion of the Balfour visit, brought a period of quiet into Page's life. These events represented for him a personal triumph; there were many things still to be done, it is true, and Page, as always, was active in advancing the interests that were nearest his heart; yet the mighty relief that followed the American declaration was the kind that one experiences after accomplishing the greatest task of a lifetime. Page's letters have contained many references to the sense of moral isolation which his country's policy had forced upon him; he probably exaggerated his feeling that there was a tendency to avoid him; this was merely a reflection of his own inclination to keep away from all but the official people. He now had more leisure and certainly more interest in cultivating the friends that he had made in Great Britain. For the fact is that, during all these engrossing years, Page had been more than an Ambassador; by the time the United States entered the war he had attained an assured personal position in the life of the British capital. He had long since demonstrated his qualifications for a post, which, in the distinction of the men who have occupied it, has few parallels in diplomacy. The scholarly Lowell, the courtly Bayard, the companionable Hay, the ever-humorous Choate, had set a standard for American Ambassadors which had made the place a difficult one for their successors. Though Page had characteristics in common with all these men, his personality had its own distinctive tang; and it was something new to the political and social life of London. And the British capital, which is extremely exacting and even merciless in its demands upon its important personages, had found it vastly entertaining. "I didn't know there could be anything so American as Page except Mark Twain," a British literary man once remarked; and it was probably this strong American quality, this directness and even breeziness of speech and of method, this absence of affectation, this almost openly expressed contempt for finesse and even for tradition, combined with those other traits which we like to think of as American---an upright purpose, a desire to serve not only his own country but mankind---which made the British public look upon Page as one of the most attractive and useful figures in a war-torn Europe.

There was a certain ruggedness in Page's exterior which the British regarded as distinctly in keeping with this American flavour. The Ambassador was not a handsome man. To one who had heard much of the liveliness of his conversation and presence a first impression was likely to be disappointing. His figure at this time was tall, gaunt, and lean--and he steadily lost weight during his service in England; his head was finely shaped---it was large, with a high forehead, his thin gray hair rather increasing its intellectual aspect; and his big frank brown eyes reflected that keen zest for life, that unsleeping interest in everything about him, that ever-working intelligence and sympathy which were the man's predominant traits. But a very large nose at first rather lessened the pleasing effects of his other features, and a rather weather-beaten, corrugated face gave a preliminary suggestion of roughness. Yet Page had only to begin talking and the impression immediately changed. "He puts his mind to yours," Dr. Johnson said, describing the sympathetic qualities of a friend, and the same was true of Page. Half a dozen sentences, spoken in his quick, soft, and ingratiating accents, accompanied by the most genial smile, at once converted the listener into a friend. Few men have ever lived who more quickly responded to this human relationship. The Ambassador, at the simple approach of a human being, became as a man transformed. Tired though he might be, low in spirits as he not infrequently was, the press of a human hand at once changed him into an animated and radiating companion. This responsiveness deceived all his friends in the days of his last illness. His intimates who dropped in to see Page invariably went away much encouraged and spread optimistic reports about his progress. A few minutes' conversation with Page would deceive even his physicians. The explanation was a simple one: the human presence had an electric effect upon him, and it is a revealing sidelight on Page's character that almost any man or woman could produce this result. As an editor, the readiness with which he would listen to suggestions from the humblest source was a constant astonishment to his associates. The office boy had as accessible an approach to Page as had his partners. He never treated an idea, even a grotesque one, with contempt; he always had time to discuss it, to argue it out, and no one ever left his presence thinking that he had made an absurd proposal. Thus Page had a profound respect for a human being simply because he was a human being; the mere fact that a man, woman, or child lived and breathed, had his virtues and his failings, constituted in Page's imagination a tremendous fact. He could not wound such a living creature any more than he could wound a flower or a tree; consequently he treated every person as an important member of the universe. Not infrequently, indeed, he stormed at public men, but his thunder, after all, was not very terrifying; his remarks about such personages as Mr. Bryan merely reflected his indignation at their policies and their influence but did not indicate any feeling against the victims themselves. Page said "Good morning" to his doorman with the same deference that he showed to Sir Edward Grey, and there was not a little stenographer in the building whose joys and sorrows did not arouse in him the most friendly interest. Some of the most affecting letters written about Page, indeed, have come from these daily associates of more humble station. " We so often speak of Mr. Page," writes one of the Embassy staff--- Findlater, Short, and Frederick"-t--hese were all English servants at the Embassy; "we all loved him equally, and hardly a day passes that something does not remind us of him, and I often fancy that I hear his laugh, so full of kindness and love of life." And the impression left on those in high position was the same. "I have seen ladies representing all that is most worldly in Mayfair," writes Mr. Ellery Sedgwick, the editor of the Atlantic Monthly, "start at the sudden thought of Page's illness, their eyes glistening with tears."

Perhaps what gave most charm to this human side was the fact that Page was fundamentally such a scholarly man. This was the aspect which especially delighted his English friends. He preached democracy and Americanism with an emphasis that almost suggested the backwoodsman---the many ideas on these subjects that appear in his letters Page never hesitated to set forth with all due resonance at London dinner tables---yet he phrased his creed in language that was little less than literary style, and illuminated it with illustrations and a philosophy that were the product of the most exhaustive reading.

"Your Ambassador has taught us something that we did not know before," an English friend remarked to an American. "That is that a man can be a democrat and a man of culture at the same time." The Greek and Latin authors had been Page's companions from the days when, as the holder of the Greek Fellowship at Johns Hopkins, he had been a favourite pupil of Basil L. Gildersleeve British statesmen who had been trained at Balliol, in the days when Greek was the indispensable ear-mark of a gentleman, could thus meet their American associate on the most sympathetic terms. Page likewise spoke a brand of idiomatic English which immediately put him in a class by himself. He regarded words as sacred things. He used them, in his writing or in his speech, with the utmost care and discrimination; yet this did not result in a halting or stilted style; he spoke with the utmost ease, going rapidly from thought to thought, choosing invariably the one needful word, lighting up the whole with whimsicalities all his own, occasionally emphasizing a good point by looking downward and glancing over his eyeglasses, perhaps, if he knew his companion intimately, now and then giving him a monitory tap on the knee. Page, in fact, was a great and incessant talker; hardly anything delighted him more than a companionable exchange of ideas and impressions; he was seldom so busy that he would not push aside his papers for a chat; and he would talk with almost any one, on almost any subject---his secretaries, his stenographers, his office boys, and any crank who succeeded in getting by the doorman---for, in spite of his lively warnings against the breed, Page did really love cranks and took a collector's joy in uncovering new types. Page's voice was normally quiet; though he had spent all his early life in the South, the characteristic Southern accents were ordinarily not observable; yet his intonation had a certain gentleness that was probably an inheritance of his Southern breeding. Thus, when he first began talking, his words would ripple along quietly and rapidly; a characteristic pose was to sit calmly, with one knee thrown over the other, his hands folded; as his interest increased, however, he would get up, perhaps walk across the room, or stand before the fireplace, his hands behind his back; a large cigar, sometimes unlighted, at other times emitting huge clouds of smoke, would oscillate from one side of his mouth to the other; his talk would grow in earnestness, his voice grow louder, his words come faster and faster, until finally they would gush forth in a mighty torrent.

All Page's personal traits are explained by that one characteristic which tempered all others, his sense of humour. That Page was above all a serious-minded man his letters show; yet his spirits were constantly alert for the amusing, the grotesque, and the contradictory; like all men who are really serious and alive to the pathos of existence, he loved a hearty laugh, especially as he found it a relief from the gloom that filled his every waking moment in England. Page himself regarded this ability to smile as an indispensable attribute to a well-rounded life. "No man can be a gentleman," he once declared, "who does not have a sense of humour." Only he who possessed this gift, Page believed, had an imaginative insight into the failings and the virtues of his brothers; only he could have a tolerant attitude toward the stupidities of his fellows, to say nothing of his own. And humour with him assumed various shades; now it would flash in an epigram, or smile indulgently at a passing human weakness; now and then it would break out into genial mockery; occasionally it would manifest itself as sheer horse-play; and less frequently it would become sardonic or even savage. It was in this latter spirit that he once described a trio of Washington statesmen, whose influence he abhorred as, "three minds that occupy a single vacuum." He once convulsed a Scottish audience by describing the national motto of Scotland---and doing so with a broad burr in his voice that seemed almost to mark the speaker a native to the heath---as " Liber-r-ty, fra-a-ternity and f-r-r-ugality." The policy of his country occasioned many awkward moments which, thanks to his talent for amiable raillery, he usually succeeded in rendering harmless. Not infrequently Page's fellow guests at the dinner table would think the American attitude toward Germany a not inappropriate topic for small talk. "Mr. Page," remarked an exaltedly titled lady in a conversational pause,"when is your country going to get into the war? " The more discreet members of the company gasped, but Page was not disturbed. "Please give us at least ninety days," he answered, and an exceedingly disagreeable situation was thus relieved by general laughter.

On another occasion his repudiation of this flippant spirit took a more solemn and even more effective form. The time was a few days before the United States had declared war. Bernstorff had been dismissed; events were rapidly rushing toward the great climax; yet the behaviour of the Washington Administration was still inspiring much caustic criticism. The Pages were present at one of the few dinners which they attended in the course of this crisis; certain smart and tactless guests did not seem to regard their presence as a bar to many gibes against the American policy. Page sat through it all impassive, never betraying the slightest resentment.

Presently the ladies withdrew. Page found himself sitting next to Mr. Harold Nicolson, an important official in the Foreign Office. It so happened that Mr. Nicolson and Page were the only two members of the company who were the possessors of a great secret which made ineffably silly all the chatter that had taken place during the dinner; this was that the United States had decided on war against Germany and would issue the declaration in a few days.

"Well, Mr. Nicolson," said Page, "I think that you and I will drink a glass of wine together."

The two men quietly lifted their glasses and drank the silent toast. Neither made the slightest reference to the forthcoming event. Perhaps the other men present were a little mystified, but in a few days they understood what it had meant, and also learned how effectively they had been rebuked.

"Is it any wonder," says Mr. Nicolson, telling this story, "that I think that Mr. Page is perhaps the greatest gentleman I have ever known? He has only one possible competitor for this distinction---and that is Arthur Balfour. "

The English newspapers took delight in printing Page's aphorisms, and several anecdotes that came from America afforded them especial joy. One went back to the days when the Ambassador was editor of the Atlantic Monthly. A woman contributor had sent him a story; like most literary novices she believed that editors usually rejected the manuscripts of unknown writers without reading them. She therefore set a trap for Page by pasting together certain sheets. The manuscript came back promptly, and, as the prospective contributor had hoped, these sheets had not been disturbed. These particular sections had certainly not been read. The angry author triumphantly wrote to Page, explaining how she had caught him and denouncing the whole editorial tribe as humbugs. " Dear Madam," Page immediately wrote in reply, "when I break an egg at breakfast, I do not have to eat the whole of it to find out that it is bad." Page's treatment of authors, however, was by no means so acrimonious as this little note might imply. Indeed, the urbanity and consideration shown in his correspondence with writers had long been a tradition in American letters. The remark of O. Henry in this regard promises to become immortal: "Page could reject a story with a letter that was so complimentary," he said, " and make everybody feel so happy that you could take it to a bank and borrow money on it."

Another anecdote reminiscent of his editorial days was his retort to S. S. McClure, the editor of McClure's Magazine.

"Page," said Mr. McClure, "there are only three great editors in the United States."

"Who's the third one, Sam? " asked Page.

Plenty of stories, illustrating Page's quickness and aptness in retort, have gathered about his name in England. Many of them indicate a mere spirit of boyish fun. Early in his Ambassadorship he was spending a few days at Stratford-on-Avon, his hostess being an American woman who had beautifully restored an Elizabethan house; the garden contained a mulberry tree which she liked to think had been planted by Shakespeare himself. The dignitaries of Stratford, learning that the American Ambassador had reached town, asked permission to wait upon him; the Lord Mayor, who headed the procession, made an excellent speech, to which Page appropriately replied, and several hundred people were solemnly presented. After the party had left Page turned to his hostess:

"Have they all gone "

"Yes."

" All? "

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Then let's take hands and dance around the mulberry tree!"

Page was as good as his word; he danced as gaily as the youngest member of the party, to the singing of the old English song.

The great service in St. Paul's Cathedral, in commemoration of America's entry into the war, has already been described. A number of wounded Americans, boys whose zeal for the Allies had led them to enlist in the Canadian Army, were conspicuous participants in this celebration. After the solemn religious ceremonies, the Ambassador and these young men betook themselves for lunch to a well-known London restaurant. In an interval of the conversation one of the Americans turned to Page.

"Mr. Ambassador, there was just one thing wrong with that service."

"What was that?"

"We wanted to yell, and we couldn't."

"Then why don't you yell now? "

The boy jumped on a chair and began waving his napkin. "The Ambassador says we may yell," he cried. "Let's yell! "

"And so," said Page, telling the story, "they yelled for five minutes and I yelled with them. We all felt better in. consequence."

This geniality, this disposition not to take life too solemnly, sometimes lightened up the sombre atmosphere of the Foreign Office itself. "Mr. Balfour went on a sort of mild rampage yesterday," Page records. "The British and American navies had come to an arrangement whereby the Brazilian ships that are coming over to help us fight should join the American unit, not the British, as was at first proposed. Washington telegraphed me that the British Minister at Rio was blocking the game by standing out for the first British idea---that the Brazilian ships should join the British. It turned out in the conversation that the British Minister had not been informed of the British-American naval arrangement. Mr. Balfour sent for Lord Hardinge. He called in one of the private secretaries. Was such a thing ever heard of?

"'Did you ever know,' said the indignant Mr. Balfour, turning to me, 'of such a thing as a minister not even being informed of his Government's decisions?' 'Yes,' I said, 'if I ransack my memory diligently, I think I could find such cases.' The meeting went into laughter!"

Evidently the troubles which Page was having with his own State Department were not unfamiliar to British officialdom.

Page's letters sufficiently reveal his fondness for Sir Edward Grey and the splendid relations that existed between them. The sympathetic chords which the two men struck upon their first meeting only grew stronger with time. A single episode brings out the bonds that drew them together. It took place at a time when the tension over the blockade was especially threatening. One afternoon Page asked for a formal interview; he had received another exceedingly disagreeable protest from Washington, with instructions to push the matter to a decision; the Ambassador left his Embassy with a grave expression upon his face; his associates were especially worried over the outcome. So critical did the situation seem that the most important secretaries gathered in the Ambassador's room, awaiting his return, their nerves strung almost to the breaking point. An hour went by and nothing was heard from Page; another hour slowly passed and still the Ambassador did not return. The faces of the assembled staff lengthened as the minutes went by; what was the Ambassador doing at the Foreign Office? So protracted an interview could portend only evil; already, in the minds of these nervous young men, ultimatums were flying between the United States and Great Britain, and even war might be hanging in the balance. Another hour drew out its weary length; the room became dark, dinner time was approaching, and still Page failed to make his appearance. At last, when his distracted subordinates were almost prepared to go in search of their chief, the Ambassador walked jauntily in, smiling and apparently carefree. What had happened? What was to be done about the detained ships?

"What ships?" asked Page, and then suddenly he remembered. "Oh, yes---those." That was all right; Sir Edward had at once promised to release them; it had all been settled in a few minutes.

"Then why were you so long?"

The truth came out: Sir Edward and Page had quickly turned from intercepted cargoes to the more congenial subject of Wordsworth, Tennyson, and other favourite poets, and the rest of the afternoon had been consumed in discussing this really important business.

Perhaps Page was not so great a story-teller as many Americans, but he excelled in a type of yarn that especially delights Englishmen, for it is the kind that is native to the American soil. He possessed an inexhaustible stock of Negro anecdotes, and he had the gift of bringing them out at precisely the right point. There was one which the Archbishop of York never tired of repeating. Soon after America entered the war, the Archbishop asked Page how long his country was "in for." "I can best answer that by telling you a story," said Page. " There were two Negroes who had just been sentenced to prison terms. As they were being taken away in the carriage placed at their disposal by the United States Government, one said to the other, 'Sam, how long is you in fo'?' 'I guess dat it's a yeah or two yeahs,' said Sam. 'How long is you in fo'?' 'I guess it's from now on,' said the other darky." "From now on," remarked the Archbishop, telling this story. "What could more eloquently have described America's attitude toward the war?"

The mention of the Archbishop suggests another of Page's talents---the aptness of his letters of introduction. In the spring of 1918 the Archbishop, at the earnest recommendation of Page and Mr. Balfour, came to the United States. Page prepared the way by letters to several distinguished Americans, of which this one, to Theodore Roosevelt, is a fair sample:

.

<P ALIGN=CENTER>To Theodore Roosevelt

London, January 16, 1918.

DEAR MR. ROOSEVELT:

The Archbishop of York goes to the United States to make some observations of us and of our ways and to deliver addresses---on the invitation of some one of our church organizations; a fortunate event for us and, I have ventured to tell him, for him also.

During his brief stay in our country, I wish him to make your acquaintance, and I have given him a card of introduction to you, and thus I humbly serve you both.

The Archbishop is a man and a brother, a humble, learned, earnest, companionable fellow, with most charming manners and an attractive personality, a good friend of mine, which argues much for him and (I think) implies also something in my behalf. You will enjoy him.

I am, dear Mr. Roosevelt,



Sincerely yours,



WALTER H. PAGE.



.



Greatly as Page loved England he never ceased to preach his Americanism. That he preferred his own country to any other and that he believed that it was its greatest destiny to teach its institutions to the rest of the world, Page's letters show; yet this was with him no cheap spread-eagleism; it was a definite philosophy which the Ambassador had completely thought out. He never hesitated to express his democratic opinions in any company, and only once or twice were there any signs that these ideas jarred a little in certain strongholds of conservatism. Even in the darkest period of American neutrality Page's faith in the American people remained complete. After this country had entered the war and the apparent slowness of the Washington Administration had raised certain questionings, Page never doubted that the people themselves, however irresolute and lukewarm their representatives might be, would force the issue to its only logical end. Even so friendly a man as Mr. Balfour once voiced a popular apprehension that the United States might not get into the war with all its strength or might withdraw prematurely. This was in the early period of our participation. "Who is going to stop the American people and how?" Page quickly replied. "I think that was a good answer," he said, as he looked back at the episode in the summer of 1918, when hundreds of thousands of Americans were landing in France every month. A scrap of his writing records a discussion at a dinner party on this question: "If you could have a month in any time and any country, what time and what country would you choose?" The majority voted for England in the time of Elizabeth, but Page's preference was for Athens in the days of Pericles. Then came a far more interesting debate: "If you could spend a second lifetime when and where would you choose to spend it?" On this Page had not a moment's hesitation: "In the future and in the U. S. A.!" and he upheld his point with such persuasiveness that he carried the whole gathering with him. His love of anything suggesting America came out on all occasions. One of his English hostesses once captivated him by serving corn bread at a luncheon. "The American Ambassador and corn bread!" he exclaimed with all the delight of a schoolboy. Again he was invited, with another distinguished American, to serve as godfather at the christening of the daughter of an American woman who had married an Englishman. When the ceremony was finished he leaned over the font toward his fellow godfather. "Born on July 4th," he exclaimed, "of an American mother! And we two Yankee godfathers! We'll see that this child is taught the Constitution of the United States!"



One day an American duchess came into Page's office.



"I am going home for a little visit and I want a passport," she said.



"But you don't get a passport here," Page replied. "You must go to the Foreign Office."



His visitor was indignant.



"Not at all," she answered. " I am an American: you know that I am; you knew my father. I want an American passport."



Page patiently explained the citizenship and naturalization laws and finally convinced his caller that she was now a British subject and must have a British passport. As this American duchess left the room he shook at her a menacing forefinger.



"Don't tell me," was the Ambassador's parting shot, "that you thought that you could have your Duke and Uncle Sam, too!"



The judgments which Page passed on men and things were quick and they were not infrequently wise. One of these judgments had historic consequences the end of which cannot even yet be foreseen. On the outbreak of hostilities, as already related, an American Relief Committee was organized in London to look out for the interests of stranded Americans. Page kept a close eye on its operations, and soon his attention was attracted by the noiseless efficiency of an American engineer of whom he had already caught a few fleeting glimpses in the period of peace. After he had finished his work with the American Committee, Mr. Herbert C. Hoover began to make his arrangements to leave for the United States. His private affairs had been disorganized; he had already sent his family home, and his one ambition was to get on the first ship sailing for the United States. The idea of Belgian relief, or of feeding starving people anywhere, had never occurred to him. At this moment an American, Mr. Millard K. Shaler, came from Brussels and gave the most harrowing account of conditions in Belgium. Mr. Hoover took Mr. Shaler to Page, who immediately became sympathetic. The Ambassador arranged an interview between Mr. Hoover and Sir Edward Grey, who likewise showed great interest and promised government support. Soon afterward three Belgians arrived and described the situation as immediately alarming: Brussels had only food enough to feed the people for thirty-six hours; after that, unless help were forthcoming, the greatest distress would set in. Five men---Page, the three Belgians, and Mr. Hoover---at once got together at the American Embassy. Upon the result of that meeting hung the fate of millions of people. Who before had ever undertaken a scheme for feeding an entire nation for an indefinite period? That there were great obstacles in the way all five men knew; the British Admiralty in particular were strongly opposed; there was a fear that the food, if it could be acquired and sent to Belgium, would find its way to the German Army. Unless the British Government could be persuaded that this could be prevented, the enterprise would fail at the start. How could it be done?



"There is only one way," said Page. "Some government must give its guarantee that this food will get to the Belgian people." "And, of course," he added, "there is only one government that can do that. It must be the American Government."



Mr. Hoover pointed out that any such guarantee involved the management of transportation; only by controlling the railroads could the American Government make sure that this food would reach its destination.



And that, added Page, involved a director---some one man who could take charge of the whole enterprise. Who should it be?



Then Page turned quickly to the young American.



"Hoover, you're It! "



Mr. Hoover made no reply; he neither accepted nor rejected the proposal. He merely glanced at the clock, then got up and silently left the room. In a few minutes he returned and entered again into the discussion.



"Hoover, why did you get up and leave us so abruptly?" asked Page, a little puzzled over this behaviour.



"I saw by the clock," came the answer---and it was a story that Page was fond of telling, as illustrating the rapidity with which Mr. Hoover worked---"that there was an hour left before the Exchange closed in New York. So I went out and cabled, buying several millions of bushels of wheat---for the Belgians, of course."



For what is usually known as "society" Page had little inclination. Yet for social intercourse on a more genuine plane he had real gifts. Had he enjoyed better health, week ends in the country would have afforded him welcome entertainment. He also liked dinner parties but indulged in them very moderately. He was a member of many London clubs but he seldom visited any of them. There were a number of organizations, however, which he regularly attended. The Society of Dilettanti, a company of distinguished men interested in promoting the arts and improving the public taste, which has been continuously in existence since 1736, enrolling in each generation the greatest painters and writers of the time, elected Page to membership. He greatly enjoyed its dinners in the Banquet Hall of the Grafton Gallery. "Last night," he writes, describing his initial appearance, "I attended my first Dilettanti dinner and was inducted, much as a new Peer is inducted into the House of Lords. Lord Mersey in the chair---in a red robe. These gay old dogs have had a fine time of it for nearly 200 years---good wine, high food, fine satisfaction. The oldest dining society in the Kingdom. The blue blood old Briton has the art of enjoying himself reduced to a very fine point indeed." Another gathering whose meetings he seldom missed was that of the Kinsmen, an informal club of literary men who met occasionally for food and converse in the Trocadero Restaurant. Here Page would meet such congenial souls as Sir James Barrie and Sir Arthur Pinero, all of whom retain lively memories of Page at these gatherings. "He was one of the most lovable characters I have ever had the good fortune to encounter," says Sir Arthur Pinero, recalling these occasions. "In what special quality or qualities lay the secret of his charm and influence? Surely in his simplicity and transparent honesty, and in the possession of a disposition which, without the smallest loss of dignity, was responsive and affectionate. Distinguished American Ambassadors will come and go, and will in their turn win esteem and admiration. But none, I venture to say, will efface the recollection of Walter Page from the minds of those who were privileged to gain his friendship."



One aspect of Page that remains fixed in the memory of his associates is his unwearied industry with the pen. His official communications and his ordinary correspondence Page dictated; but his personal letters he wrote with his own hand. He himself deplored the stenographer as a deterrent to good writing; the habit of dictating, he argued, led to wordiness and general looseness of thought. Practically all the letters published in these volumes were therefore the painstaking work of Page's own pen. His handwriting was so beautiful and clear that, in his editorial days, the printers much preferred it as "copy" to typewritten matter. This habit is especially surprising in view of the Ambassador's enormous epistolary output. It must be remembered that the letters included in the present book are only a selection from the vast number that he wrote during his five years in England; many of these letters fill twenty and thirty pages of script; the labour involved in turning them out; day after day, seems fairly astounding. Yet with Page this was a labour of love. All through his Ambassadorship he seemed hardly contented unless he had a pen in his hand. As his secretaries would glance into his room, there they would see the Ambassador bending over his desk---writing, writing, eternally writing; sometimes he would call them in, and read what he had written, never hesitating to tear up the paper if their unfavourable criticisms seemed to him well taken. The Ambassador kept a desk also in his bedroom, and here his most important correspondence was attended to. Page's all-night self-communings before his wood fire have already been described, and he had another nocturnal occupation that was similarly absorbing. Many a night, after returning late from his office or from dinner, he would put on his dressing gown, sit at his bedroom desk, and start pouring forth his inmost thoughts in letters to the President, Colonel House, or some other correspondent. His pen flew over the paper with the utmost rapidity and the Ambassador would sometimes keep at his writing until two or three o'clock in the morning. There is a frequently expressed fear that letter writing is an art of the past; that the intervention of the stenographer has destroyed its spontaneity; yet it is evident that in Page the present generation has a letter writer of the old-fashioned kind, for he did all his writing with his own hand and under circumstances that would assure the utmost freshness and vividness to the result.



An occasional game of golf, which he played badly, a trip now and then to rural England---these were Page's only relaxations from his duties. Though he was not especially fond of leaving his own house, he was always delighted when visitors came to him. And the American Embassy, during the five years from 1913 to 1918, extended a hospitality which was fittingly democratic in its quality but which gradually drew within its doors all that was finest in the intellect and character of England. Page himself attributed the popularity of his house to his wife. Mrs. Page certainly embodied the traits most desirable in the Ambassadress of a great Republic. A woman of cultivation, a tireless reader, a close observer of people and events and a shrewd commentator upon them, she also had an unobtrusive dignity, a penetrating sympathy, and a capacity for human association, which, while more restrained and more placid than that of her husband, made her a helpful companion for a sorely burdened man. The American Embassy under Mr. and Mrs. Page was not one of London's smart houses as that word is commonly understood in this great capital. But No. 6 Grosvenor Square, in the spaciousness of its rooms, the simple beauty of its furnishings, and especially in its complete absence of ostentation, made it the worthy abiding place of an American Ambassador. And the people who congregated there were precisely the kind that appeal to the educated American. "I didn't know I was getting into an assembly of immortals," exclaimed Mr. Hugh Wallace, when he dropped in one Thursday afternoon for tea, and found himself foregathered with Sir Edward Grey, Henry James, John Sargent, and other men of the same type. It was this kind of person who most naturally gravitated to the Page establishment, not the ultra-fashionable, the merely rich, or the many titled. The formal functions which the position demanded the Pages scrupulously gave; but the affairs which Page most enjoyed and which have left the most lasting remembrances upon his guests were the informal meetings with his chosen favourites, for the most part literary men. Here Page's sheer brilliancy of conversation showed at its best. Lord Bryce, Sir John Simon, John Morley, the inevitable companions, Henry James and John Sargent---"What things have I seen done at the Mermaid"; and certainly these gatherings of wits and savants furnished as near an approach to its Elizabethan prototype as London could then present.



Besides his official activities Page performed great services to the two countries by his speeches. The demands of this kind on an American Ambassador are always numerous, but Page's position was an exceptional one; it was his fortune to represent America at a time when his own country and Great Britain were allies in a great war. He could therefore have spent practically all his time in speaking had he been so disposed. Of the hundreds of invitations received he was able to accept only a few, but most of these occasions became memorable ones. In any spectacular sense Page was not an orator; he rather despised the grand manner, with its flourishes and its tricks; the name of public speaker probably best describes his talents on the platform. Here his style was earnest and conversational: his speech flowed with the utmost readiness; it was invariably quiet and restrained; he was never aiming at big effects, but his words always went home. Of the series of speeches that stand to his credit in England probably the one that will be longest remembered is that delivered at Plymouth on August 4, 1917, the third anniversary of the war. This not only reviewed the common history of the two nations for three hundred years, and suggested a programme for making the bonds tighter yet, but it brought the British public practical assurances as to America's intentions in the conflict. Up to that time there had been much vagueness and doubt; no official voice had spoken the clear word for the United States; the British public did not know what to expect from their kinsmen overseas. But after Page's Plymouth speech the people of Great Britain looked forward with complete confidence to the cooperation of the two countries and to the inevitable triumph of this cooperation.



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<P ALIGN=CENTER>To Arthur W. Page

Knebworth House, Knebworth,
August 11, 1917.

DEAR ARTHUR:

First of all, these three years have made me tired. I suppose there's no doubt about that, if there were any scientific way of measuring it. While of course the strain now is nothing like what it was during the days of neutrality, there's yet some strain.

I went down to Plymouth to make a speech on the anniversary of the beginning of the war---went to tell them in the west of England something about relations with the United States and something about what the United States is doing in the war. It turned out to be a great success. The Mayor met me at the train; there was a military company, the Star Spangled Banner and real American applause. All the way through the town the streets were lined with all the inhabitants and more---apparently millions of 'em. They made the most of it for five solid days.

On the morning of August 4th the Mayor gave me an official luncheon. Thence we went to the esplanade facing the sea, where soldiers and sailors were lined up for half a mile. The American Flag was flung loose, the Star Spangled Banner broke forth from the band, and all the people in that part of the world were there gathered to see the show. After all this salute the Mayor took me to the stand and he and I made speeches, and the background was a group of dozens of admirals and generals and many smaller fry. Then I reviewed the troops; then they marched by me and in an hour or two the show was over.

Then the bowling club---the same club and the same green as when Drake left the game to sail out to meet the Armada.

Then a solemn service in the big church, where the prayers were written and the hymns selected with reference to our part in the war.

Then, of course, a dinner party. At eight o'clock at night, the Guildhall, an enormous town hall, was packed with people and I made my speech at 'em. A copy (somewhat less good than the version I gave them) goes to you, along with a leader from the Times. They were vociferously grateful for any assuring word about the United States. It's strange how very little the provincial Englander knows about what we have done and mean to do. They took the speech finely, and I have had good letters about it from all sorts of people in every part of the Kingdom.

Then followed five days of luncheons and dinners and garden parties---and (what I set out to say) I got back to London last night dead tired. To-day your mother and I came here-about twenty-five miles from London---for a fortnight.

This is Bulwer-Lytton's house---a fine old English place hired this year by Lady Strafford, whom your mother is visiting for a fortnight or more, and they let me come along, too. They have given me the big library, as good a room as I want-with as bad pens as they can find in the Kingdom.

Your mother is tired, too. Since the American Red Cross was organized here, she has added to her committee and hospitals. But she keeps well and very vigorous. A fortnight here will set her up. She enjoyed Plymouth very much in spite of the continual rush, and it was a rush.

What the United States is doing looks good and large at this distance. The gratitude here is unbounded; but I detect a feeling here and there of wonder whether we are going to keep up this activity to the end.

I sometimes feel that the German collapse may come next winter. Their internal troubles and the lack of sufficient food and raw materials do increase. The breaking point may be reached before another summer. I wish I could prove it or even certainly predict it. But it is at least conceivable. Alas, no one can prove anything about the war. The conditions have no precedents. The sum of human misery and suffering is simply incalculable, as is the loss of life; and the gradual and general brutalization goes on and on and on far past any preceding horrors.



With all my love to you and Mollie and the trio,



W. H. P.



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And so for five busy and devastating years Page did his work. The stupidities of Washington might drive him to desperation, ill-health might increase his periods of despondency, the misunderstandings that he occasionally had with the British Government might add to his discouragements, but a naturally optimistic and humorous temperament overcame all obstacles, and did its part in bringing about that united effort which ended in ---victory. And that it was a great part, the story of his Ambassadorship abundantly proves. Page was not the soldier working in the blood and slime of Flanders, nor the sea fighter spending day and night around the foggy coast of Ireland, nor the statesman bending parliaments to his will and manipulating nations and peoples in the mighty game whose stake was civilization itself. But history will indeed be ungrateful if it ever forget the gaunt and pensive figure, clad in a dressing gown, sitting long into the morning before the smouldering fire at 6 Grosvenor Square, seeking to find some way to persuade a reluctant and hesitating President to lead his country in the defense of liberty and determined that, so far as he could accomplish it, the nation should play a part in the great assize that was in keeping with its traditions and its instincts.



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