Chapter XXIV: A Respite at St. Ives

_To Edward M. House_

Knebworth House
Sunday, September,[sic] 1917.

Dear House:

... By far the most important peace plan or utterance is the
President's extraordinary answer to the Pope[64]. 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 _the_ war aim and _the_ 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.

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.

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.

Sincerely yours,

WALTER H. PAGE.

_To Arthur W. Page_

American Embassy,
London, Sept. 3, 1917.

DEAR ARTHUR:

... 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. 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 _them_ 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.

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.

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 _people_
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.

_To Frank N. Doubleday_

American Embassy.

[Undated, but written about October I, 1917]

DEAR EFFENDI:

... 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 off 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!

That's the way we keep a stiff upper lip.

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.

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.

God bless us.

Sincerely yours, with my love to all the boys,
W.H.P.

_To Frank N. Doubleday_

London, November 9, 1917.

DEAR EFFENDI:

... 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 sky-light 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!

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.

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. 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.

Always heartily yours,

W.H.P.

_To the President_

London, December 3, 1917.

DEAR MR. PRESIDENT:

... 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--_be done by our help_. But they have fits of
fear of France. They are discouraged by the greater part of Lord
Lansdowne's letter[65]. 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.

I am, dear Mr. President,
Sincerely yours,
WALTER H. PAGE.

_To Arthur W. Page_

American Embassy,
London, December 23, 1917.

DEAR ARTHUR:

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.

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.

... 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: "We can hold on till next year. But after 1918, it'll be
your fight. We'll have to depend on you." 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: "Surrender? Never." 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.

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.

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 "everything is going to the devil damned fast."
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
"parlours" 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!

Affectionately,

W.H.P.

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.

_To Mrs. Charles G. Loring_
St. Ives, Cornwall, March 3, 1918.

DEAR KITTY:

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.

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.

Bless you and little Alice,

Affectionately,

W.H.P.

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:

_To Ralph W. Page_

Tregenna Castle Hotel,
St. Ives, Cornwall, England,
March 4, 1918.

DEAR RALPH:

Asparagus
Celery
Tomatoes
Butter Beans
Peas
Sweet Corn
Sweet Potatoes
Squash--the sort you cook in the rind
Cantaloupe
Peanuts
Egg Plant
Figs
Peaches
Pecans
Scuppernongs
Peanut-bacon, in glass jars
Razor-back hams, divinely cured
Raspberries
Strawberries
etc. etc. etc. etc.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Plant a few fig trees now; and pecans? Any good?

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 _done 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.

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

Yours affectionately,

W.H.P.

P.S. And cornfield peas, of just the right rankness, cooked with
just the right dryness.

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.

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.

W.H.P.

_To Arthur W. Page_

St. Ives, Cornwall,

England, March 8, 1918.

DEAR ARTHUR:

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 _his_ 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.

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.

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 "issue" 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 "discussions"--peace by "negotiation." When you are
about to kill the robber, he cries out, "For God's sake, let's
discuss the question between us. We can come to terms."--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.

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.

... 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[66]. 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.

We're enjoying the mere quiet. And your mother is quite well again.

Affectionately,

W.H.P.

To Mrs. Charles G. Loring
St. Ives, Cornwall,
March 10, 1918.

DEAR KITTY:

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 sidewalk, 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!

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!

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.

Don't you see how easily we fall into an idle mood? Well, here's a
photograph of little Alice looking up at me from the table where I
write--a good, sweet face she has.

And you'll never get another letter from me in a time and from a
place whereof there is so little to tell.

Affectionately, dear Kitty,

W.H.P.

To Ralph W. Page
Tregenna Castle Hotel,
St. Ives, Cornwall,
March 12, 1918.

MY DEAR RALPH:

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 _style_. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Then see that no sentence contains a hint of obscurity.

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.

Most of all, use _idioms_--English idioms of force. Say an
agreement was "come to." Don't say it was "consummated." 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!

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.

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.

Yours affectionately,

W.H.P.

This glimpse of a changing and chastened England appears in a letter of this period:

* * * * *

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 "cuss," this Englishman. But he isn't a liar nor a coward nor any sort of "a yellow dog." 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 mediæval impedimenta, his dukes and marquesses and all that they imply--his outworn ceremonies and his mediæval 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.

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--"That's me." "Yes," I said, "that's you," 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.

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. "It's all very wonderful," said the venerable lady, "and my granddaughter actually heard the President make a speech!" 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.

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. 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.

* * * * *

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 "international" 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 H. 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.

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, "were unselfish, but the motives of Great Britain seemed to him to be of a less unselfish character." 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[67].

The President showed more and more feeling about the matter as the discussion continued. "There are too many Englishmen," he said, "in this country and in Washington now and I have asked the British Ambassador to have some of them sent home."

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.

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.

"Page," said the President, "is really an Englishman and I have to discount whatever he says about the situation in Great Britain."

And then he added, "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."

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. "I am sorry," wrote Colonel House to Page, "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."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 64: August 1, 1917, Pope Benedict XV sent a letter to the Powers urging them to bring the war to an end and outlining possible terms of settlement. On August 29th President Wilson sent his historic reply. This declared, in memorable language, that the Hohenzollern dynasty was unworthy of confidence and that the United States would have no negotiations with its representatives. It inferentially took the stand that the Kaiser must abdicate, or be deposed, and the German autocracy destroyed, as part of the conditions of peace.]

[Footnote 65: On November 29, 1917, the London _Daily Telegraph_ published a letter from the Marquis of Lansdowne, which declared that the war had lasted too long and suggested that the British restate their war aims. This letter was severely condemned by the British press and by practically all representative British statesmen. It produced a most lamentable impression in the United States also.]

[Footnote 66: Eugene C. Shoecraft, the Ambassador's secretary.]

[Footnote 67: As related in Chapter XXII, page 267, President Wilson was informed of the so-called "secret treaties" by Mr. Balfour, in the course of his memorable visit to the White House.]