# Under Dispute/Allies

FRIENDSHIP between princes," observed the wise Philippe de Commines, "is not of long duration." He would have said as much of friendship between republics, had he ever conceived of representative government. What he knew was that the friendships of men, built on affection and esteem, outlast time; and that the friendships of nations, built on common interests, cannot survive the mutability of those interests, which are always liable to deflection. He had proof, if proof were needed, in the invasion of France by Edward the Fourth under the pressure of an alliance with Charles of Burgundy. It was one of the urbane invasions common to that gentlemanly age. "Before the King of England embarked from Dover, he sent one of his heralds named Garter, a native of ​Normandy, to the King of France, with a letter of defiance couched in language so elegant and so polite that I can scarcely believe any Englishman wrote it."
This was a happy beginning, and the end was no less felicitous. When Edward landed in France he found that Louis the Eleventh, who hated fighting, was all for peace; and that the Duke of Burgundy, who generally fought the wrong people at the wrong time, was in no condition for war. Therefore he patched up a profitable truce, and went back to England, a wiser and a richer man, on better terms with his enemy than with his ally. "For where our advantage lies, there also is our heart."
The peculiar irritation engendered by what Americans discreetly designate as "entangling alliances" was forced upon my perception in early youth, when I read the letters of a British officer engaged in fighting the Ashanti. ​The war, if it may be so termed, was fought in 1873, and the letters were published in "Blackwood's Magazine." The Ashanti had invaded Fantiland, then under a British protectorate, and the troops commanded by Sir Garnet Wolseley were presumably defending their friends. This particular officer expressed his sense of the situation in a fervid hope that when the Ashanti were beaten, as they deserved to be, the English would then come to speedy terms with them, "and drive these brutes of Fanti off the map."
It is a sentiment which repeats itself in more measured terms on every page of history. The series of "Coalitions" formed against Napoleon were rich in super-comic, no less than in super-tragic elements; and it was well for those statesmen whose reason and whose tempers were so controlled that they were able to perceive the humours of this giant game of pussy-in-the-corner. ​A mutual fear of France drew the Allies together; a mutual distrust of one another pulled them apart. Sir Gilbert Elliot, afterwards Lord Minto, endeavoured from the beginning to make England understand that Austria would prefer her own interests to the interests of the Coalition, and that it was not unnatural that she should do so. The situation, as he saw it, was something like this:
"Austria: 'If I am to dance to your tune, you must pay the piper.'
"England: 'So long as I lead the figure, and you renounce a pas seul.'"
Unfortunately the allurements of a pas seul were too strong to be anywhere resisted. Prices grew stiffer and stiffer, armies melted away when the time for action neared. Britain, always victorious at sea, paid out large sums for small returns on land. Her position was briefly summed up by Sir Hugh Elliot—more brilliant and less astute than ​his brother—at the hostile Court of Prussia. Frederick the Great, overhearing the pious ejaculation with which the Englishman greeted the arrival of a satisfactory dispatch from Sir Eyre Coote, said to him acidly: "I was not aware that God was also one of your allies." "The only one, Sire, whom we do not finance," was the lightning retort.
One more circumstance deserves to be noted as both familiar and consolatory. Napoleon's most formidable purpose was to empty England's purse by waging a commercial war. When he forbade her exports to the countries he fancied he controlled, he was promised implicit obedience. In March, 1801, Lord Minto wrote serenely to Lord Grenville: "The trade of England and the necessities of the Continent will find each other out in defiance of prohibitions. Not one of the confederates will be true to the gang, and I have ​little doubt of our trade penetrating into France itself, and thriving in Paris."—Which it did.
The comfortable thing about the study of history is that it inclines us to think hopefully of our own times. The despairing tone of contemporary writers would seem to indicate that the allied nations that fought and won the Great War have fallen from some high pinnacle they never reached to an abysmal depth they have never sounded. When Dean Inge recorded in "The Contemporary Review" his personal conviction that the war had been "a ghastly and unnecessary blunder, which need not have happened, and ought not to have happened," this casual statement was taken up and repeated on both sides of the Atlantic, after the exasperating fashion in which a Greek chorus takes up and repeats in strophe and antistrophe the most depressing sentiment of the play. And to ​what purpose? Did any sane man ever doubt that Austria's brutal ultimatum to Serbia was a ghastly and unnecessary blunder? Did any sane man ever doubt that Germany's invasion of Belgium was a ghastly and unnecessary blunder? But if Dean Inge or his sympathizers knew of any argument, save that of arms, by which the Central Powers could have been convinced that they were blundering, and persuaded to retrieve their blunder, so that what ought not to have happened need not have happened, it is a pity that this enlightenment was not vouchsafed to an imperilled world.
It is possible for two boys to build up a friendship on the basis of a clean fight. It is possible for two nations to build up a good understanding on the basis of a clean fight. The relations between Great Britain and South Africa constitute a case in point. Germany's fighting was unclean from start to finish. ​Therefore, while there are many to feel commiseration for her, there are none to do her honour. The duration of the war has little to do with this strong sentiment of disesteem. Had it lasted four months instead of four years, the deeds done in Belgium and in France would have sterilized the seeds of friendship in the minds of all who remembered them. To an abnormal sense of superiority, Germany added an abnormal lack of humour, which made her regard all resistance as an unjustifiable and unpardonable affront. Her resentment that Belgians should have presumed to defend their country was like the resentment of that famous marauder, the Earl of Cassillis, when Allan Stewart refused to be tortured into signing away his patrimony. "You are the most obstinate man I ever saw to oblige me to use you thus," said the justly indignant Earl. "I never thought to have treated any one as ​your stubbornness has made me treat you."
The emotional ebb-tide which followed the signing of the armistice was too natural to be deplored, save that it gave to obstructionists their chance to decry the matchless heroisms of the war. No people can be heroic over the problem of paying debts out of an empty treasury. Need drives men to envy as fullness drives them to selfishness. Bargaining is essential to the life of the world; but nobody has ever claimed that it is an ennobling process. If it were given to debtors to love their creditors, there would have been no persecution of the Jews. If it were given to creditors to love their debtors, there would be no poverty on earth. That all the nations, now presumably on friendly terms, should be following their own interests would seem to most of us the normal thing it is, if they did not so persistently affect to be amazed ​and grieved at one another's behaviour, and if the mischief-makers of every land were not actively engaged in widening breaches into chasms.
It is inevitable and logical that the men who were pacifists when the word had a sinister meaning should heartily detest their countries' allies who helped them win the war. The English "Nation and Athenæum" wrote of France in 1922 as it might have written—but did not—of Germany in 1914. Poincaré it likened to Shylock, France to a butcher eager for the shambles. "French militarism at work in the Rhineland is a lash to every evil passion." "Europe is kept in social and political disorder by the sheer selfishness of France." "There was a France of the mind. Victory killed it, and a long slow renovation of the soul must precede its resurrection."
Like the ingenuous Mr. Pepys, the "Nation" does "just naturally hate ​the French," and takes it hard that the world should persistently regard them as a valuable asset to civilization. The concentrated nationalism which held Verdun now expresses itself in a steely resolution to hold France, and to recover for her out of the wreckage of Europe the material aid of which she stands in need. Coöperation is a good word and a good thing. To a Frenchman it means primarily the interest of his own country. What else does it mean to any of us? Britain's policy of conciliation, our policy of aloofness, Germany's bargaining, and Russia's giant bluff, all have the same significance. "Be not deceived! Nothing is so dear to any creature as his profit," said Epictetus, who, having stript his own soul bare of desires, was correspondingly ready to forgive the acquisitive instincts of others.
Mr. Edward Martin, writing very lucidly and very sympathetically of the ​French, admits that their conception of their duty to the world "is to defend France, keep her functioning, and make her powerful and prosperous." It sounds narrow, and practical, and arrogant. It also sounds familiar. France feels herself to be intellectually and artistically a thing of value. The best service she can render to the world is her own preservation. How does America feel? The very week that Mr. Martin offered his interpretation of Gallic nationalism, a writer in the "Review of Reviews" (New York), after asserting with indescribable smugness that Americans "have been trained to an attitude of philanthropy hardly known in other countries," proceeded to illustrate this attitude by defending high tariffs, restricted immigration, and other comforting pieces of legislation. "Our best service to the world," he explained, "lies in maintaining our national life and character."
​This is just what France thinks, only her most zealous sons forbear to define prudence as philanthropy. They believe that the world is the better for what they have to give; but they know that it is not for the world's sake that they so keenly desire to be in a position to give it. They are profoundly sentimental, but their sentiment is all for la patrie. Internationally they are practical to the point of hardness, and they see no reason why they should be otherwise. There is for them no pressing necessity to assume that they love their neighbours as themselves.
It is different with Americans in whom idealism and materialism dispute every inch of the ground. A Texan professor, sent by the American Peace Commission to investigate conditions in Germany, published in "The North American Review," May, 1922, a paper on "American Ideals and Traditions," which was widely quoted as embodying ​a clear and fervid spirit of hopefulness, much needed in these disillusioned days. The writer took the high ground that Americans were the first people in the world "to make the spirit of disinterested human service the measure of a nation as well as of a man. What is now termed American humanitarianism is but the American spirit of philanthropy at home, translated into international relations." This "simple historical fact" is the key to all our actions. "The entrance of America into the Great War was not a species of interruption in the normal flow of its idealism; but was the irresistible on-pressing of the great current of our 'will to human service.'"
One wonders if this particular idealist remembers what happened in Europe, in the United States, and on the high seas, between July, 1914, and April, 1917? Does he recall those thirty-two months, close-packed with incidents of ​such an order that their cumulative weight broke down our hardy resistance to "service," and drove us slowly but splendidly into action? Great deeds are based on great emotions; but the conflicting emotions of that period are not accurately described as "irresistible." The best of them were too long and too successfully resisted. We gain no clear impression of events by thinking in ornamental terms. Headlines are one thing, and history is another. "In judging others," says Thomas à Kempis, "a man usually toileth in vain. For the most part he is mistaken, and he easily sinneth. But in judging and scrutinizing himself, he always laboureth with profit."
The continued use of the word "entangling" is to be regretted. It arouses an excess of uneasiness in cautious souls. All alliances from marriage up—or down—must necessarily entangle. The anchorites of Thebais are the ​only examples we have of complete emancipation from human bonds. That simple and beautiful thing, minding our own affairs and leaving our neighbours to mind theirs, is unhappily not possible for allies. Neither is a keen and common desire for peace a sufficient basis for agreement. Peace must have terms, and terms require a basis of their own—justice, reason, and the limited gains which are based on mutual concessions. "Whether we are peaceful depends upon whether others are provocative." Mr. W. H. Mallock tells us a pleasant story of an old Devonshire woman who was bidden by the parson to be "conciliating" to her husband. "I labour for peace, sir," was the spirited reply. "But when I speak to he thereof, he directly makes hisself ready for battle."
There are students of history who would have us believe that certain nations are natural allies, fitted by char​acter and temperament to agree, and to add to one another's pleasure and profit. Germany and Russia have been cited more than once as countries instinctively well disposed towards each other, because each supplements the other's talents. Bismarck ranked the Germans as among the male, and the Slavs as among the female nations of the world. The driving power he rightfully assigned to Germany. "The soft Slav nature," says a writer in "The New Republic," "emotional, sensitive, but undisciplined, has derived most of such progress as it has made in material civilization from German sources."
Both countries have proved unsound allies, and Russia has the feminine quality of changeableness. "Dangerous to her foes, disastrous to her friends." Both make the same kind of currency, and stand in need of business partners who make a different sort. America, with the gold of Europe ​locked up in her treasury, is the most desirable, but least accessible, partner in Christendom. As the great creditor of the civilized world, she has been impelled to assert that no participation on her part in any international conference implies a surrender of her claims to payment. France, as the great sufferer by a world's war, has made it equally clear that no participation on her part implies a surrender of her claims to reparation. The anger and shame with which the Allies first saw the injuries inflicted on her have been softened by time; and that strange twist in human nature which makes men more concerned for the welfare of a criminal than for the welfare of his victim has disposed us to think kindly of an unrepentant Germany. But France cannot well forget the wounds from which she bleeds. Less proud than Britain, which prefers beggary to debt, she is infinitely more logical; ​and it is the unassailable strength of her position which has irritated the sentimentalists of the world, whose hearts are in the right place, but whose heads are commonly elsewhere.
The French press has waxed sorrowful and bitter over France's sense of isolation. Her cherished belief in the "unshakable American friendship" has been cruelly shattered, and she has asked of Heaven and earth where is the (proverbially absent) gratitude of republics. That there is no such thing as an unshakable national friendship is as well known to the clear-headed and well-informed French as to the rest of us. They were our very good friends in 1777, and our love for them flamed high. They were our very bad friends in 1797, and by the time they had taken or sunk three hundred and forty American ships, our affection had grown cool. It revived in 1914 under the impetus of their great wrongs and greater valour. ​Some good feeling remains, and bids fair to remain, if the press and the politicians of both lands will kindly let it alone; but popular enthusiasm, a fire of straw, burned itself quickly out. After all, we ourselves are no longer the idol of our whilom friends. A fairy god-mother is popular only when she is changing pumpkins into coaches, and mice into prancing bays. When she gives nothing but good advice, her words are no more golden than her neighbour's. In the realm of the practical, a friendship which does not help, and an enmity which does not hurt, can never be controlling factors.
Great Britain sets scant store by any ally save the sea. She has journeyed far, changing friends on the road as a traveller by post changed horses. She has fought her way, and is singularly devoid of rancour towards her enemies. The time has indeed gone by when, after battle, the English and French ​knights—or what was left of them—would thank each other for a good fight. Those were days of lamentable darkness, when the last thing a gentleman craved was the privilege of dying in his bed by some slow and agonizing process, the gift of nature, and gratefully designated as "natural." The headsman for the noble, the hangman for the churl, and the fortunes of war for everybody, made death so easy to come by, and so inexpensive, that there was a great deal of money left for the pleasures of living. That stout-hearted Earl of Northumberland who thanked God that for two hundred years no head of his house had died in bed, knew what his progenitors had been spared. Even in the soberly civilized eighteenth century there lingered a doubt as to the relative value of battle-field, gallows and sick-chamber.
Fighting and making up, alternate friends and foes, the nations of Europe have come in a thousand years to know one another fairly well. There was a short time when Napoleon's threatened invasion awakened in England's breast a hearty and healthy abhorrence of France. There was a long time when the phrase, "virgin of English," applied to a few perilously placed French seaports (Saint-Malo, for example), revealed, as only such proud and burning words can ever reveal, the national hatred of England. Over and over again history taught the same lesson; that the will of a people is stout to repel the invader, and that a foreign alliance offers no stable foundation for policy. But a great deal is learned from contact, whether it be friendly or inimical; and the close call of the Great War ​has left behind it a legacy of percipience. It was an Englishman who discovered during those years that the French officers snored "with a certain politeness." It was a great American who said that France had "saved the soul of the world." It was a Frenchman who wrote comprehensively: "To disregard danger, to stand under fire, is not for an Englishman an act of courage; it is part of a good education." When gratitude is forgotten, as all things which clamour for remembrance should be, and sentimentalism has dissolved under the pitiless rays of reality, there remains, and will remain, a good understanding which is the basis of good will.
At present the nations that were drawn together by a common peril are a little tired of one another's company, and more than a little irritated by one another's grievances. The natural result of this weariness and irritation is an increase of sympathy for Germany, ​who now finds herself detested by her former allies, and smiled upon by at least some of her former foes. All that she says, and she has a great deal to say, is listened to urbanely. General Ludendorff has assured the American public that Prussia was innocent of even a desire to injure England. What she sought was peace "on conditions acceptable and inoffensive to both parties." The Crown Prince's memoirs, which have been appreciatively reviewed, set forth in eloquent language the Arthurian blamelessness of the Hohenzollerns. "The results of the excessive Viennese demand upon Serbia involved us in the war against our will."
The breathless competition for the memoirs of the exiled Kaiser was a notable event in the publishing world. The history of literature can show nothing to resemble it. In 1918 we gravely discussed the propriety of trying this gentleman for his life. In 1922 we con​tended with far more heat for the privilege of presenting to a gratified public his imperial views upon his imperial policy. Americans exulted over the acquisition of these copyrights as they exulted over the acquisition of the Blue Boy. It is a grand thing to be able to outbid one's neighbour, and pay a "record-smashing" price for any article in the market. Certain inflexible and unhumorous souls took umbrage at this catering to a principle we professed to reject, at the elevation of Wilhelm the Second to the rank of the world's most favoured author. They thought it implied a denial of all we reverenced, of all we fought for, of all we knew to be good. It really implied nothing but curiosity; and curiosity is not to be confounded with homage. Saint Michael is honoured of men and angels; but if he and Lucifer gave their memoirs to the world, which would be better paid for, or more read?