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[[Main Page | WWI Document Archive]] > [[Diaries, Memorials, Personal Reminiscences]] > [[The_Life_and_Letters_of_Walter_H._Page|Walter H. Page]] > '''Chapter XVII'''
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<CENTER><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Times">CHAPTER XVII</FONT><FONT
 SIZE="+2"></FONT></center><br><br>

<CENTER><FONT SIZE="+2">CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND, 1915</FONT></center>



<CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Edward M. House</FONT></I></center>
<BLOCKQUOTE><br><br>London, December 7, 1915.
<br><br>MY DEAR HOUSE:
<br><br>I hear you are stroking down the Tammany tiger---an easier
job than I have with the British lion. You can find out exactly
who your tiger is, you know the house he lives in, the liquor
he drinks, the company he goes with. The British lion isn't so
easy to find. At times in English history he has dwelt in Downing
Street---not so now. So far as our struggle with him is concerned,
he's all over the Kingdom; for he is public opinion. The governing
crowd in usual times and on usual subjects can here overrun public
opinion---can make it, turn it, down it, dodge it. But it isn't
so now---as it affects us. Every mother's son of 'em has made
up his mind that Germany must and shall be starved out, and even
Sir Edward's scalp isn't safe when they suspect that he wishes
to be lenient in that matter. They keep trying to drive him out,
on two counts: (1) he lets goods out of Germany for the United
States &quot;and thereby handicaps the fleet&quot;; and (2) he
failed in the Balkans. Sir Edward is too much of a gentleman
for this business of rough-riding over all neutral rights and
for bribing those Balkan bandits.
<br><br>I went to see him to-day about the <I>Mocking, </I>etc. He
asked me: &quot;Do <I>you know </I>that the ships of this line
are really owned, in good faith, by Americans? &quot;
<br><br>&quot;I'll answer your question,&quot; said I, &quot;if I
may then ask you one. No, I don't know of my own knowledge. Now,
<I>do you know </I>that they are <I>not </I>owned by Americans?&quot;
<br><br>He had to confess that he, of his own knowledge, didn't know.
<br><br>&quot;Then,&quot; I said, &quot;for the relief of us both,
I pray you hurry up your prize court.&quot;
<br><br>When we'd got done quarrelling about ships and I started to
go, he asked me how I liked Wordsworth's war poems. &quot;The
best of all war poems,&quot; said he, &quot;because they don't
glorify war but have to do with its philosophy. &quot; Then he
told me that some friend of his had just got out a little volume
of these war poems selected from Wordsworth; &quot;and I'm going
to send you a copy.&quot;
<br><br>&quot;Just in time,&quot; said I, &quot;for I have a copy
of 'The Life and Letters of John Hay'<ref>By William Roscoe Thayer, published in 1915.</ref> that I'm sending to you.&quot;
<br><br>He's coming to dine with me in a night or two: he'll do anything
but discuss our Note with me. And he's the only member of the
Government who, I think, would like to meet our views; and he
can't. To use the language of Lowell about the campaign of Governor
Kent---these British are hell-bent on starving the Germans out,
and neutrals have mighty few rights till that job's done.
<br><br>The worst of it is that the job won't be done for a very long
time. I've been making a sort of systematic round of the Cabinet
to see what these fellows think about things in general at this
stage of the game. Bonar Law (the Colonies) tells me that the
news from the Balkans is worse than the public or the newspapers
know, and that still worse news will come. Germany will have
it all her own way in that quarter.
<br><br>&quot;And take Egypt and the canal?&quot;
<br><br>&quot; I didn't say that,&quot; he replied. But he showed
that he fears even that.</BLOCKQUOTE>

<BLOCKQUOTE>
<br><br>I could go on with a dozen of 'em; but I sat down to write
you a Christmas letter, and nothing else. The best news I have
for you is not news at all, but I conceive it to be one of the
best hopes of the future. In spite of Irishmen past, present,
and to come; in spite of Germans, whose fuss will soon be over;
in spite of lawyers, who (if left alone) would bankrupt empires
as their clients and think they'd won a victory; I'm going to
leave things here in a year and a half so that, if wise men wish
to lay a plan for keeping the peace of the world, all they need
to do will be to say first to Uncle Sam: &quot;This fellow or
that must understand that he can't break loose like a wild beast.&quot;
If Uncle Sam agrees (and has a real navy himself), he'll wink
at John Bull, and John will follow after. You see our blackleg
tail-twisters have the whole thing backward. They say we truckle
to the British. My plan is to lead the British---not for us to
go to them but to have them come to us. We have three white men
to every two white men in their whole Empire; and, when peace
comes, we'll be fairly started on the road to become as rich
as the war will leave them. There are four clubs in London which
have no other purpose than this; and the best review<ref>The Ambassador had in mind The Round Table.</ref> in the world exists chiefly
for this purpose. All we need to do is to be courteous (we can
do what we like if we do it courteously). Our manners, our politicians,
and our newspapers are all that keep the English-speaking white
man, under our lead, from ruling the world, without any treaty
or entangling alliance whatsoever. If, when you went to Berlin
to talk to your gentle and timid friend, the Emperor, about disarmament
before the war---if about 200 American dreadnaughts and cruisers,
with real grog on 'em, had come over to make a friendly call,
in the North Sea, on the 300 English dreadnaughts and cruisers---just
a friendly call, admirals on admirals---the &quot;Star-Spangled
Banner&quot; and &quot;God Save the King &quot;---and if General
Bell, from the Philippines, had happened in London just when
Kitchener happened to be home from Egypt<I>---then, there wouldn't
have been this war now. </I>Nothing need have been said---no
  treaty, no alliance, nothing. For then 100 or more British naval
  ships would have joined the Panama naval procession and any possible
  enemy would have seen that combined fleet clean across the Pacific.
  <br><br>Now this may all be a mere Christmas fancy---a mere yarn about
  what might have been---because we wouldn't have sent ships here
  in our old mood; the crew would have missed one Sunday School.
  But it's <I>this kind </I>of thing that does the trick. But this
  means the practice of courtesy, and we haven't acquired the habit.
  Two years or more ago the training ships from Annapolis with
  the cadets aboard anchored down the Thames and stayed several
  weeks and let the boys loose in England. They go on such a voyage
  every two years to some country, you know. The English didn't
  know that fact and they took the visit as a special compliment.
  Their old admirals were all greatly pleased, and I hear talk
  about that yet. We ought to have two or three of our rear-admirals
  here on their fleet now. Symington, of course, is a good fellow;
  but he's a mere commander and attach&eacute;---not an admiral---in
  other words, not any particular compliment or courtesy to the
  British Navy. (As soon as the war began, a Japanese admiral turned
  up here and he is here now.) We sent over two army captains as
  military observers. The Russians sent a brigadier-general. We
  ought to have sent General Wood. You see the difference? There
  was no courtesy in our method. It would be the easiest and prettiest
  job in the world to swallow the whole British organization, lock,
  stock, and barrel---King, Primate, Cabinet, Lords, and Commons,
  feathers and all, and to make 'em follow our <I>courteous </I>lead
  anywhere. The President had them in this mood when the war started
  and for a long time after---till the <I>Lusitania </I>seemed
  to be forgotten and till the lawyers began to write his Notes.
  He can get 'em back, after the war ends, by several acts of courtesy---if
  we could get into the habit of doing such things as sending generals
  and admirals as compliments to them. The British Empire is ruled
  by a wily use of courtesies and decorations. If I had the President
  himself to do the correspondence, if I had three or four fine
  generals and admirals and a good bishop or two, a thoroughbred
  senator or two and now and then a Supreme Court Justice to come
  on proper errands and be engineered here in the right way---we
  could do or say anything we liked and they'd do whatever we'd
  say. I'd undertake to underwrite the whole English-speaking world
  to keep peace, under our leadership. Instead whereof, every move
  we now make is to follow them or to <I>drive </I>them. The latter
  is impossible, and the former is unbecoming to us.
  <br><br>But to return to Christmas.---I could go on writing for a
  week in this off-hand, slap-dash way, saying wise things flippantly.
  But Christmas---that's the thing now. Christmas! What bloody
  irony it is on this side the world! Still there will be many
  pleasant and touching things done. An Englishman came in to see
  me the other day and asked if I'd send $1,000 to Gerard<ref>James W. Gerard, American Ambassador to Germany, and, as such, in charge of British interests in Germany.</ref> to use in making the English
  prisoners in Germany as happy as possible on Christmas Day---only
  I must never tell anybody who did it. A lady came on the same
  errand---for the British prisoners in Turkey, and with a less
  but still a generous sum. The heroism, the generosity, the endurance
  and self-restraint and courtesy of these people would melt a
  pyramid to tears. Of course there are yellow dogs among 'em,
  here and there; but the genuine, thoroughbred English man or
  woman is the real thing---one of the realest things in this world.
  So polite are they that not a single English person has yet mentioned
  our Note to me---not one.
  <br><br>But every one I've met for two days has mentioned the sending
  of Von Papen and Boy-Ed<ref>The German military and naval attachés, whose persistent and outrageous violation of American laws led to their dismissal by President Wilson.</ref>
  home---not that they expect us to get into the war, but because
  they regard this action as maintaining our self-respect.
  <br><br>Nor do they neglect other things because of the war. I went
  to the annual dinner of the Scottish Corporation the other night---an
  organization which for 251 years has looked after Scotchmen stranded
  in London; and they collected $20,000 then and there. There's
  a good deal of Christmas in 'em yet. One fellow in a little patriotic
  speech said that the Government is spending twenty-five million
  dollars a day to whip the Germans.---&quot;Cheap work, very cheap
  work. We can spend twice that if necessary. Why, gentlemen, we
  haven't exhausted our pocket-change yet.&quot;
  <br><br>Somehow I keep getting away from Christmas. It doesn't stay
  put. It'll be a memorable one here for its sorrows and for its
  grim determination---an empty chair at every English table. But
  nowhere in the world will it be different except in the small
  neutral states here and in the lands on your side the world.
  <br><br>How many Christmases the war may last, nobody's wise enough
  to know. That depends absolutely on Germany. The Allies announced
  their terms ten months ago, and nothing has yet happened to make
  them change them. That would leave the Germans with Germany and
  a secure peace---no obliteration or any other wild nonsense,
  but only a secure peace. Let 'em go back home, pay for the damage
  they've done, and then stay there.
  <br><br>I do hope that the actual fighting will be ended by Christmas
  of next year. Of course it may end with dramatic suddenness at
  any time, this being the only way, perhaps, for the Kaiser to
  save his throne. Or it may go on for two or three years. My guess
  is that it'll end next year---a guess subject to revision, of
  course, by events that can't be foreseen.
  <br><br>But as I said before---to come back to Christmas. Mrs. Page
  and I send you and Mrs. House our affectionate good wishes and
  the hope that you keep very well and very happy in your happy,
  prosperous hemisphere. We do, I thank you. We haven't been better
  for years---never before so busy, never, I think, so free from
  care. We get plenty to eat (such as it is in this tasteless wet
  zone), at a high cost, of course; we have comfortable beds and
  shoes (we spend all our time in these two things, you know);
  we have good company, enough to do (!!), no grievances nor ailments,
  no ill-will, no disappointments, a keen interest in some big
  things---all the chips are blue, you know; we don't feel ready
  for halos, nor for other uncomfortable honours; we deserve less
  than we get and are content with what the gods send. This, I
  take it, is all that Martin<ref>E. S. Martin, Editor of Life.</ref>
  would call a comfortable mood for Christmas; and we are old enough
  and tough enough to have thick armour against trouble. When Worry
  knocks at the door, the butler tells him we're not at home.
  <br><br>And I see the most interesting work in the world cut out for
  me for the next twenty-five or thirty years---to get such courtesy
  into our dealings with these our kinsmen here, public and private---as
  will cause them to follow us in all the developments of democracy
  and---in keeping the peace of the world secure. I can't impress
  it on you strongly enough that the English-speaking folk have
  got to set the pace and keep this world in order. Nobody else
  is equal to the job. In all our dealings with the British, public
  and private, we allow it to be assumed that <I>they </I>lead:
  they don't. <I>We </I>lead. They'll follow, if we do really lead
  and are courteous to them. If we hold back, the Irishman rears
  up and says we are surrendering to the English! Suppose we go
  ahead and the English surrender to us, what can your Irishmen
  do then? Or your German? The British Navy is a pretty good sort
  of dog to have to trot under your wagon. If we are willing to
  have ten years of thoughtful good manners, I tell you Jellicoe
  will eat out of your hand.
  <br><br>Therefore, cheer up! It's not at all improbable that Ford<ref>Mr. Henry Ford at this time was getting together his famous peace ship, which was to sail to Europe "to get the boys out of the trenches by Christmas."</ref> and his
  cargo of cranks, if they get across the ocean, may strike a German
  mine in the North Sea. Then they'll die happy as martyrs; and
  the rest of us will live happy, and it'll be a Merry Christmas
  for everybody.
  <br><br>Our love to Mrs. House.</BLOCKQUOTE>

<BLOCKQUOTE>
<br><br>Always heartily yours,
<br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
<br><br>.

<CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Frank N. Doubleday and Others</FONT></I></center>
<BLOCKQUOTE><br><br>London, Christmas, 1915.
  <br><br>DEAR D. P. &amp; Co.
  <br><br>. . . Now, since we're talking about the war, let me deliver
  my opinion and leave the subject. They're killing one another
  all right; you needn't have any doubt about that---so many thousand
  every day, whether there's any battle or not. When there's &quot;nothing
  to report&quot; from France, that means the regular 5,000 casualties
  that happen every day. There isn't any way of getting rid of
  men that has been forgotten or neglected. Women and children,
  too, of course, starve in Serbia and Poland and are massacred
  in Turkey. England, though she has by very much the largest army
  she ever had, has the smallest of all the big armies and yet
  I don't know a family that had men of fighting age which hasn't
  lost one or more members. And the worst is to come. But you never
  hear a complaint. Poor Mr. Dent,<ref>J. M. Dent, the London publisher.</ref>
  for instance (two sons dead), says: &quot;It's all right. England
  must be saved.&quot;
  <br><br>And this Kingdom alone, as you know, is spending twenty-five
  million dollars a day. The big loan placed in the United States<ref>$500,000,000.</ref> would last
  but twenty days! If this pace of slaughter and of spending go
  on long enough, there won't be any men or any money left on this
  side the world. Yet there will be both left, of course; for somehow
  things never quite go to the ultimate smash that seems to come.
  Read the history of the French Revolution. How did the French
  nation survive?
  <br><br>It will go on, unless some unexpected dramatic military event
  end it, for something like another year at least---many say for
  two years more, and some, three years more. It'll stop, of course,
  whenever Germany will propose terms that the Allies can consider---or
  something near such terms; and it won't stop before. By blockade
  pressure and by fighting, the Allies are gradually wearing the
  Germans out. We can see here the gradual pressure of events in
  that direction. My guess is that they won't go into a third winter.
  <br><br>Well, dear gentlemen, however you may feel about it, that's
  enough for me. My day---every day---is divided into these parts:
  (1) two to three hours listening to Americans or their agents
  here whose cargoes are stopped, to sorrowing American parents
  whose boys have run away and gone into the English Army, to nurses
  and doctors and shell makers who wish to go to France, to bereaved
  English men and women whose sons are &quot;missing&quot;: can
  I have them found in Germany? (2) to answering letters about
  these same cheerful subjects; (3) to going over cases and documents
  prepared about all these sorts of troubles and forty other sorts,
  by the eight or ten secretaries of the Embassy, and a conference
  with every one of them; (4) the reading of two books of telegrams,
  one incoming, the other outgoing, and the preparation of a lot
  of answers; (5) going to the Foreign Office, not every day but
  often, to discuss more troubles there; (6) home to dinner at
  8 o'clock---at home or somewhere else, and there is more talk
  about the war or about the political troubles. That for a regular
  daily routine for pretty nearly a year and a half! As I say,
  if anybody is keeping the war up for my entertainment, he now
  has my permission to stop. No time to read, no time to write,
  little time to think, little or no time to see the people you
  most wish to see, I often don't know the day of the week or of
  the month: it's a sort of life in the trenches, without the immediate
  physical danger. Then I have my cabinet meetings, my financial
  reports (money we spend for four governments: I had till recently
  about a million dollars subject to my check); then the commission
  for the relief of Belgium; then the Ambassadors and Ministers
  of the other neutral states---our task is worse than war!
  <br><br>Well, praise God for sleep. I get from seven to nine hours
  a night, unbroken; and I don't take Armageddon to bed with me.
  <br><br>I don't mind telling you (nobody else) that the more I see
  just how great statesmen work and manage great governments---the
  more I see of them at close range---whether in Washington or
  London or Berlin or Vienna or Constantinople (for these are my
  Capitals), the more I admire the methods of the Long Island farmers.
  Boys, I swear I could take our crowd and do a better job than
  many of these great men do. I have to spend a lot of time to
  correct their moves before the other fellow finds out the mistake.
  For instance I know I spent $2,000 in telegrams before I could
  make the German Government understand the British military age,
  and the British Government understand the German military age,
  for exchanging prisoners who had lost two legs or arms or both
  eyes; and I've had to send a man to Berlin to get a financial
  report from one man on one floor of a building there and to take
  it to another man on the floor above. Just yesterday I was reminded
  that I had made eighteen requests for the same information of
  the British Government, when the nineteenth request for it came
  from Washington; and I have now telegraphed that same thing nineteen
  times since the war began. Of course everybody's worked to death.
  But something else ails a lot of 'em all the way from Constantinople
  to London. Leaving out common gutter lying (and there's much
  of it) the sheer stupidity of governments is amazing. They are
  all so human, so mighty human! I wouldn't be a government for
  any earthly consideration. I'd rather be a brindled dog and trot
  under the wagon.
  <br><br>But it has been an inexpressibly interesting experience to
  find all this out for myself. There's a sort of weary satisfaction
  in feeling that you've seen too much of them to be fooled by
  'em any more. And, although most men now engaged in this game
  of government are mere common mortals with most of the common
  mortal weaknesses, now and then a really big man does stumble
  into the business. I have my doubts whether a really big man
  ever deliberately goes into it.. And most of the men who the
  crowd for the moment thinks are big men don't really turn out
  so. It's a game like bull fighting. The bull is likely to kill
  you---pretty sure to do so if you keep at the business long enough;
  but in the meantime you have some exciting experiences and the
  applause of the audience. When you get killed, they forget you---immediately.
  There are two rather big men in this Government, and you wouldn't
  guess in three rounds who they are. But in general the war hasn't
  so far developed very big men in any country. Else we are yet
  too close to them to recognize their greatness. Joffre seems
  to have great stuff in him; and (I assure you) you needn't ever
  laugh at a Frenchman again. They are a great people. As for the
  British, there was never such a race. It's odd---I hear that
  it happens just now to be the fashion in the United States to
  say that the British are not doing their share. There never was
  a greater slander. They absolutely hold the Seven Seas. They
  have caught about seventy submarines and some of them are now
  destroying German ships in the Baltic Sea. They've sent to France
  by several times the largest army that any people ever sent over
  the sea. They are financing most of their allies and they have
  turned this whole island into gun and shell factories. They made
  a great mistake at the Dardanelles and they are slower than death
  to change their set methods. But no family in the land, from
  charcoal burners to dukes, hesitates one moment to send its sons
  into the army.
  <br><br>When the news comes of their death, they never whimper. When
  you come right down to hard facts, the courage and the endurance
  of the British and the French excel anything ever before seen
  on this planet. All the old stories of bravery from Homer down
  are outdone every day by these people. I see these British at
  close range, full-dress and undress; and I've got to know a lot
  of 'em as well as we can ever come to know anybody after we get
  grown. There is simply no end to the silly sides of their character.
  But, when the real trial comes, they don't flinch; and (except
  the thoroughbred American) there are no such men in the world.
  <br><br>A seven-foot Kansas lawyer (Kansas all over him) came to see
  me yesterday. He came here a month ago on some legal business.
  He told me yesterday that he had always despised Englishmen.
  He's seen a few with studhorse clothes and white spats and monocles
  on who had gone through Kansas to shoot in the Rocky Mountains.
  He couldn't understand 'em and he didn't like 'em. &quot;So infernally
  uppish,&quot; said he.
  <br><br>&quot;Well, what do you think of 'em now?&quot;
  <br><br>&quot;The very best people in the world,&quot; said he. I
  think he has a notion of enlisting!
  <br><br>You're still publishing books, I hear. That's a good occupation.
  I'd like to be doing it myself. But I can't even get time to
  read 'em now.
  <br><br>But, as you know, nobody's writing anything but war books---from
  Kipling to Hall Caine. Poor Kipling!---his boy's dead. I have
  no doubt of it. I've had all the German hospitals and prison
  camps searched for him in vain. These writing men and women,
  by the way, are as true blue and as thoroughbred as any other
  class. I can never forget Maurice Hewlett's brave behaviour when
  he thought that his flying corps son had been killed by the Germans
  or drowned at sea. He's no prig, but a real man. And the women
  are as fine as the men. . . .
  <br><br>To go back to books: Of course nobody can tell what effect
  the war will have on the writing of them, nor what sort of new
  writers may come up. You may be sure that everything is stirred
  to its profoundest depths and will be stirred still more. Some
  old stagers will be laid on the shelf; that's certain. What sort
  of new ones will come? I asked H. G. Wells this question. He
  has promised to think it out and tell me. He has the power to
  guess some things very well. I'll put that question to Conrad
  when I next see him.
  <br><br>Does anybody in the United States take the Prime Minister,
  Mr. Asquith, to be a great man? His wife is a brilliant woman;
  and she has kept a diary ever since he became Prime Minister;
  and he now has passed the longest single term in English history.
  Mr. Dent thinks he's the biggest man alive, and Dent has some
  mighty good instincts.
  <br><br>Talk about troubles! Think of poor Northcliffe. He from its
  miserable government, and the government now openly abuses him
  in the House of Commons. Northcliffe puts on his brass knuckles
  and turns the <I>Times</I> building upside down and sets all
  the <I>Daily Mail </I>machine guns going, and has to go to bed
  to rest his nerves, while the row spreads and deepens. The Government
  keeps hell in the prayerbook because without it they wouldn't
  know what to do with Northcliffe; and Northcliffe is just as
  sure that he has saved England as he is sure the Duke of Wellington
  did.
  <br><br>To come back to the war. (We always do.) Since I wrote the
  first part of this letter, I spent an evening with a member of
  the Cabinet and he told me so much bad military news, which they
  prevent the papers from publishing or even hearing, that to-night
  I almost share this man's opinion that the war will last till
  1918. That isn't impossible. If that happens the offer that I
  heard a noble old buck make to a group of ladies the other night
  may be accepted. This old codger is about seventy-five, ruddy
  and saucy yet. &quot;My dear ladies,&quot; said he, &quot;if
  the war goes on and on we shall have no young men left. A double
  duty will fall on the old fellows. I shall be ready, when the
  need comes, to take four extra wives, and I daresay there are
  others of my generation who are as patriotic as I am.&quot;
  <br><br>All of which is only my long-winded, round-about diplomatic
  way of wishing you every one and every one of yours and all the
  folk in the office, their assigns, superiors, dependents, companions
  in labour---all, everyone and sundry, the happiest of Christmases;
  and when you take stock of your manifold blessings, don't forget
  to be thankful for the Atlantic Ocean. That's the best asset
  of safety that we have.</BLOCKQUOTE>
  
<BLOCKQUOTE>
<br><br>Affectionately yours,
<br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
<br><br>.

<CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Mrs. Charles G. Loring</FONT></I></center>
<BLOCKQUOTE><br><br>6 Grosvenor Square,<BR>
  London, December 7, 1915.
  <br><br>DEAR KITTY:
  <br><br>This is my Christmas letter to you and Chud---a poor thing,
  but the best I have to give you. At least it carries My love,
  dear, and my wishes that every Christmas under your own roof
  will be happier than the preceding one. Since your starting point
  is on the high level of your first Christmas in your own home---that's
  a good wish. isn't it?
  <br><br>I'm beginning to think a good deal of your mother and me.
  Here we are left alone by every one of you---in a foreign land;
  and, contrary to all predictions that any of you would have made
  about us four or five years ago, we're faring pretty well, thank
  you, and not on the edge of dying of loneliness at all. I tell
  you, I think we're pretty brave and hardy.
  <br><br>We're even capable of becoming cocky and saucy to every one
  of you. Be careful, then.
  <br><br>You see if you have a war to live with you don't necessarily
  need children: you'll have strife enough without em. We'll console
  ourselves with such reflections as these.
  <br><br>And the truth is---at least about me---that there isn't time
  to think of what you haven't got. Of course, I'm working, as
  always, to soften the relations between these two governments.
  So far, in spite of the pretty deep latent feeling on both sides---far
  worse than it ought to be and far worse than I wish it were---I'm
  working all the time to keep things as smooth as possible. Happily,
  nobody can prove it, but I believe it, that there is now and
  there has been all along more danger of a serious misunderstanding
  than anybody has known. The Germans have, of course, worked in
  1000 ways to cause misunderstanding between England and the United
  States. Then, of course, there has been constant danger in the
  English bull-headed insularity which sees nothing but the Englishman's
  immediate need, and in the English slowness. Add to these causes
  the American ignorance of war and of European conditions. It
  has been a God's mercy for us that we have so far had a man like
  Sir Edward Grey in his post. And in my post, while there might
  well have been a better man, this much at least has been lucky---that
  I do have a consciousness of English history and of our common
  origin and some sense of the inevitable destiny of the great
  English-speaking race---so that, when we have come to sharp corners
  in the road, I have known that whatever happen we must travel
  in the right general direction---have known that no temporary
  difference must be allowed to assume a permanent quality. I have
  thought several times that we had passed the worst possible place,
  and then a still worse one would appear. It does look now as
  if we had faced most of the worst difficulties that can come,
  but I am not sure what Congress may do or provoke. If we outlast
  Congress, we shall be safe. Now to come through this enormous
  war even with no worse feeling than already exists between the
  two countries---that'll be a big thing to have done. But it's
  work like the work of the English fleet. Nobody can prove that
  Jellicoe has been a great admiral. Yet the fleet has done the
  whole job more successfully than if it had had sea-fights and
  lost a part of their ships.
  <br><br>Our Note has left a great deal of bad feeling---suppressed,
  but existent. A part of it was inevitable and (I'd say) even
  necessary. But we put in a lot of things that seem to me to be
  merely disputatious, and we didn't write it in the best form.
  It corresponds to what you once called <I>suburban: </I>do you
  remember? Not thoroughbred. But we'll get over even that, especially
  if the Administration and the courts continue to bring the Germans
  to book who are insulting our dignity and destroying our property
  and killing Americans. If we can satisfactorily settle the <I>Lusitania
  </I>trouble, the whole outlook will be very good.
  <br><br>Your mother and I are hearing much interesting political talk.
  We dined last night with Mr. Bonar Law. Sir Edward Carson was
  there. To-day we lunched with Lady P.---the other side, you see.
  There are fundamental differences continually arising. They thought
  a few weeks ago that they had the Prime Minister's scalp. He
  proved too nimble for them. Now one person after another says
  to you: &quot;Kitchener doesn't deserve the reverence the people
  give him.&quot; More and more folks say he's hard to work with---is
  domineering and selfish. Nobody seems really to know him; and
  there are some signs that there may be a row about him.
  <br><br>We've heard nothing from Harold in quite a little while. We
  have, you know, three of our footmen in the war. Allen was wounded
  at Loos---a flesh, bullet-wound. He's about well now and is soon
  going back. Leslie is in the trenches and a postal card came
  from him the other day. The third one, Philip, is a prisoner
  in Germany. Your mother sent him a lot of things, but we've never
  heard whether he received them or not. The general strain---military,
  political, financial---gets greater. The streets are darker than
  ever. The number of wounded increases rapidly. More houses are
  turned into hospitals. The Manchesters', next door, is a hospital
  now. And everybody fears worse days are to come. But they have
  no nerves, these English. They grit their teeth, but they go
  on bravely, enduring everything. We run in to experiences every
  day that melt you, and the heroic things we hear outnumber and
  outdo all the stories in all the books.
  <br><br>I keep forgetting Xmas, Kitty, and this is my Xmas letter.
  You needn't put it in your stocking, but you'd really better
  burn it up. It would be the ruination of the world if my frank
  comments got loose. It's for you and Chud only. You may fill
  your stocking full of the best wishes you ever received---enough
  to fill the polar bear skin. And I send you both my love.
  <br><br>.</BLOCKQUOTE>

<CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Ralph W., Arthur W., and Frank C. Page</FONT></I><ref>The Ambassador's sons.</ref></center>
<BLOCKQUOTE><br><br>London, Christmas, 1915.
  <br><br>DEAR BOYS: R. W. P., A. W. P., F. C. P.
  <br><br>A Merry Christmas to you! Good cheer, good company, good food,
  good fires, good golf. I suppose (though the Lord only knows)
  that I'll have to be here another Christmas; but another after
  that? Not on your life!
  <br><br>I think I'm as cheerful and hopeful as I ever was, but this
  experience here and the war have caused my general confidence
  in the orderly progress of civilization somewhat to readjust
  itself. I think that any man who looks over the world and who
  knows something of the history of human society---I mean any
  American who really believes in democracy and in human progress---is
  somewhat saddened to see the exceeding slowness of that progress.
  In the early days of our Republic hopeful Americans held the
  opinion that the other countries of the world would follow our
  example;. that is to say, would educate the people, would give
  the masses a chance to become real men, would make their governments
  and institutions serve the people, would dispense with kings
  and gross privileges and become free. Well, they haven't done
  it. France is nominally a republic, but the masses of it people
  are far, far backward. Switzerland is a republic, but a very
  small one. Denmark is a very free state, in spite of its monarchical
  form of government. In South America they think they have republics,
  but they haven't the slightest idea of the real education and
  freedom of the people. Practically, therefore, the United States
  and the self-governing British colonies are the only really free
  countries of much importance in the whole world---these and this
  Kingdom. Our example hasn't been followed. In Europe, Germany
  and Russia in particular have monarchs who are in absolute command.
  Thus on both sides the world, so far as government and the danger
  of war are concerned, there hasn't been very much real progress
  in five hundred years.
  <br><br>This is a little disappointing. And it means, of course, that
  we are likely to have periodical earthquakes like this present
  one till some radical change come. Republics have their faults,
  no doubt. But they have at least this virtue: that no country
  where the people really have the control of their government
  is likely to start out deliberately on any war of conquest---is
  not likely to run amuck---and will not regard its population
  as mere food for shell and powder.
  <br><br>Nor do I believe that our example of our government has, relatively
  to our strength and wealth and population, as much influence
  in the world as we had one hundred years ago. Our people have
  no foreign consciousness and I know that our government knows
  almost nothing about European affairs; nor do our people know.
  As regards foreign affairs our government lacks proper machinery.
  Take this as an illustration: The President wrote vigorous and
  proper notes about the <I>Lusitania </I>and took a firm stand
  with Germany. Germany has paid no attention to the <I>Lusitania
  </I>outrage. Yet (as I understand it) the people will not run
  the risk of war---or the Administration thinks they will not---and
  hence the President can do nothing to make his threat good. Therefore
  we stand in a ridiculous situation; and nobody cares how many
  notes we write. I don't know that the President could have done
  differently---unless, before he sent the <I>Lusitania </I>notes,
  he had called Congress together and submitted his notes to Congress.
  But, as the matter stands, the Germans are merely encouraged
  to blow up factories and practically to carry on war in the United
  States, because they know we can (or will) do nothing. Mere notes
  break nobody's skin.
  <br><br>We don't seem to have any machinery to bring any influence
  to bear on foreign governments or on foreign opinion; and, this
  being so, it is little wonder that the rest of the world does
  not follow our republican example.
  <br><br>And this sort of impotence in influence has curious effects
  at home. For example, the ship-purchase bill, as it was at the
  last session of Congress, was an economic crime. See what has
  happened: We have waked up to the fact that we must have a big
  navy. Well, a navy is of no far-fighting value unless we have
  auxiliary ships and a lot of 'em. Admiral Jellicoe has 3,000
  ships under his command; and he couldn't keep his fleet on the
  job he didn't have them. Most of them are commandeered merchant,
  passenger, and fishing ships. Now we haven't merchant, passenger,
  and fishing ships to commandeer. We've got to build and buy auxiliary
  ships to our navy. This, to my mind, makes the new ship-purchase
  bill, something like it, necessary. Else our navy, when comes
  to the scratch, will be of no fighting value, however big it
  be. It's the price we've got to pay for not having built up a
  merchant marine. And we haven't built up a merchant marine because
  we've had no foreign consciousness. While our Irishmen have been
  leading us to twist the Lion's tail, we've been depending almost
  wholly on English ships---and, in late years, on German ships.
  You can't cross the ocean yet in a decent American ship. You
  see, we've declared our independence; and, so far a individual
  development goes, we've worked it out. But the governmental machinery
  for maintaining it and for making it visible to the world---we've
  simply neglected to build it or to shape it. Hence the President's
  notes hurt nobody and accomplish nothing; nor could our navy
  put up a real fight, for lack of colliers and supply ships. It's
  the same way all around the horizon. And these are the reasons
  we haven't made our democracy impress the world more.
  <br><br>A democracy is not a quick-trigger war-engine and can't be
  made into one. When the quick-trigger engines get to work, they
  forget that a democracy does not consider fighting the first
  duty of man. You can bend your energies to peaceful pursuits
  or you can bend them to war. It's hard to do both at the same
  time. The Germans are the only people who have done both at the
  same time; and even they didn't get their navy big enough for
  their needs.
  <br><br>When the infernal thing's over---that'll be a glad day; and
  the European world won't really know what it has cost in men
  and money and loss of standards till it is over. . . .</BLOCKQUOTE>
  
<BLOCKQUOTE>
<br><br>Affectionately,
<br><br>W. H. P.</BLOCKQUOTE>
<br><br>.

<CENTER><I><FONT SIZE="+1">To Walter H. Page, Jr.</FONT></I><ref>The Ambassador's infant grandson, son of Arthur W. Page.</ref></center>
<BLOCKQUOTE><br><br>London, Christmas, 1915.
  <br><br>SIR:
  <br><br>For your first Christmas, I have the honour to send you my
  most affectionate greetings; and in wishing you all good health,
  I take the liberty humbly to indicate some of the favours of
  fortune that I am pleased to think I enjoy in common with you.
  <br><br><I>First--</I>-I hear with pleasure that you are quite well
  content with yourself---not because of a reasoned conviction
  of your own worth, which would be mere vanity and unworthy of
  you, but by reason of a philosophical disposition. It is too
  early for you to bother over problems of self-improvement---as
  for me it is too late; wherefore we are alike in the calm of
  our self-content. What others may think or say about us is a
  subject of the smallest concern to us. Therefore they generally
  speak well of us; for there is little satisfaction in speaking
  ill of men who care nothing for your opinion of them. Then, too,
  we are content to be where we happen to be---a fact that we did
  not order in the beginning and need not now concern ourselves
  about. Consider the eternal coming and going of folk. On every
  road many are travelling one way and an equal number are travelling
  the other way. It is obvious that, if they were all content to
  remain at the places whence they set forth, the distribution
  of the population would be the same. Why therefore move hither
  and yon at the cost of much time and labour and money, since
  nothing is accomplished thereby? We spare ourselves by being
  content to remain where we are. We thereby have the more time
  for reflection. Nor can we help observing with a smile that all
  persons who have good reasons to see us themselves make the necessary
  journey after they discover that we remain fixed.
  <br><br>Again, people about us are continually doing this service
  and that for some other people---running errands, mending fences,
  bearing messages, building, and tearing down; and they all demand
  equal service in return. Thus a large part of mankind keeps itself
  in constant motion like bubbles of water racing around a pool
  at the foot of a water-fall---or like rabbits hurrying into their
  warrens and immediately hurrying out again. Whereas, while these
  antics amuse and sadden us, we for the most part remain where
  we are. Hence our wants are few; they are generally most courteously
  supplied without our asking; or, if we happen to be momentarily
  forgotten, we can quickly secure anything in the neighbourhood
  by a little judicious squalling. Why, then, should we whirl as
  bubbles or scurry as rabbits? Our conquering self-possession
  gives a masterful charm to life that the victims of perpetual
  locomotion never seem to attain.
  <br><br>You have discovered, and my experience confirms yours, that
  a perpetual self-consciousness brings most of the misery of the
  world. Men see others who are richer than they; or more famous,
  or more fortunate---so they think; and they become envious. You
  have not reached the period of such empty vanity, and I have
  long passed it. Let us, therefore, make our mutual vows not to
  be disturbed by the good luck or the good graces of others, but
  to continue, instead, to contemplate the contented cat on the
  rug and the unenvious sky that hangs over all alike.
  <br><br>This mood will continue to keep our lives simple. Consider
  our diet. Could anything be simpler or better? We are not even
  tempted by the poisonous victuals wherewith mankind destroys
  itself. The very first sound law of life is to look to the belly;
  for it is what goes into a man that ruins him. By avoiding murderous
  food, we may hope to become centenarians. And why not? The golden
  streets will not be torn up and we need be in no indecent haste
  to travel even on them. The satisfactions of this life are just
  beginning for us; and we shall be wise to endure this world for
  as long a period as possible.
  <br><br>And sleep is good-long sleep and often; and your age and mine
  permit us to indulge in it without the sneers of the lark or
  the cock or the dawn.
  <br><br>I pray you, sir, therefore, accept my homage as the philosopher
  that you are and my assurance of that high esteem indicated by
  my faithful imitation of your virtues. I am,
  <br><br>With the most distinguished consideration, <BR>
  With the sincerest esteem, and <BR>
  With the most allectionate good wishes,</BLOCKQUOTE>
  
<BLOCKQUOTE>
<br><br>Sir,<BR>
    Your proud,<BR>
    Humble,<BR>
    Obedient
    <br><br>GRANDDADDY.</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>
  <br><br>To Master Walter Hines Page,<BR>
  On Christmas, 1915.</BLOCKQUOTE>
<hr>

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[[Main Page | WWI Document Archive]] > [[Diaries, Memorials, Personal Reminiscences]] > [[The_Life_and_Letters_of_Walter_H._Page|Walter H. Page]] > '''Chapter XVII'''
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