Fields of Victory | Page 7

height of its four years' development
in men, training, and morale, and had already shown by the stand of the
Third Army at Arras, at the very fiercest moment of the German
onslaught, that although Germany might still attack, it was now certain
that, so long as the British Army was in the field, she could not win the
war: and finally;
(3) The young and growing American Army, which had only been
some six months in the fighting line, and was still rather a huge
promise, though of capital importance, both politically and militarily,
than a performance. It was brave and ardent, like a young eaglet, "with
eyes intentive to bedare the sun;" but it had its traditions to lay down,
its experience to buy, and large sections of its military lesson still to
learn. It could not, as a fighting force, have determined the war last

year; and the war was finally won, under the supreme command of a
great Frenchman, by the British Army, acting in concert with the
French and American armies--and supported by the British naval
blockade, and the British, French, and Serbian military successes in the
East.
In such a summary I am, naturally, merely a porte-voix, trying to
reproduce the thoughts of many minds, as I came across them in France.
But if this is the general upshot of the situation, and the general settled
conviction of the instructed British mind, as I believe it to be, our
alliance with France and our friendship with America, so passionately
upheld by all that is best in our respective nations, have both of them
nothing to lose from its temperate statement. Great Britain, in spite of
our national habit of running ourselves down, is not, indeed, supporting
the League of Nations from any sense at all of lost prestige or
weakened power, but from an idealism no less hopeful and insistent
than that of America, coupled with a loathing of war no less strong.
The League of Nations!--A year ago how many of us had given any
serious thought to what was then a phrase, a dream, on which in the
dark days of last spring it seemed a mere waste of time to dwell? And
yet, week by week, since the New Year began, the dream has been
slowly taking to itself body and form.
On the very day (January 25th) when the League of Nations resolution
was passed at the Paris Conference, I happened to spend an interesting
hour in President Wilson's company, at the Villa Murat. Mrs. Wilson,
whose gentle kindness and courtesy were very widely appreciated in
Paris, had asked me to come in at six o'clock, and await the President's
return from the Conference. I found her with five or six visitors round
her, members of the Murat family, come to pay a visit to the illustrious
guest to whom they had lent their house--the Princesse Murat, talking
fluent English, her son in uniform, her widowed daughter and two
delicious little children. In little more than five minutes, the President
came in, and the beautiful room made a rich setting for an interesting
scene. He entered, radiant, and with his first words, standing in our
midst, told us that the Conference had just passed the League of

Nations resolution. The two tiny children approached him, the little girl
curtseyed to him, the little boy kissed his hand; and then they vanished,
to remember, perhaps, fifty years hence, the dim figure of a tall and
smiling man, whom they saw on a day marked in history.
The President took his seat as the centre of our small circle. I am not
going to betray the confidence of what was a private visit, but general
impressions are not, I think, forbidden. I still seem to see the Princesse
Murat opposite me, in black, her fingers playing with her pearls as she
talked; the French officer with folded arms beside her; next to him the
young widowed lady, whose name I did not catch, then Mrs. Wilson,
with the intelligent face of her secretary, Miss Benham, in the
background, and between myself and Princesse Murat, the easy,
attractive presence of the man whom this old Europe, with one accord,
is now discussing, criticising, blaming or applauding. The President
talked with perfect simplicity and great apparent frankness. There is a
curious mingling in his face, it seemed to me, of something formidable,
at times almost threatening, with charm and sweetness. You are in the
presence of something held in leash; that something is clearly a will of
remarkable quality and power. You are also in the presence of
something else, not less strongly controlled, a consciousness of success,
which is in itself a promise of further success. The manner has in it
nothing of the dictator,