UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.
No. XXII.
(From the President of the United States of America.)
Sir,—The Imperial German Government will shortly receive through the usual channels a document in which are expressed the sentiments of the Government of the United States with regard to the grave questions involved in the sinking of unarmed merchant vessels by German submarines, and particularly with regard to the sinking of the Lusitania and the consequent death of many American citizens. These sentiments are necessarily expressed in diplomatic form, though I trust you will not mistake their restraint for weakness or imagine that because the terms are courteous there is any lack of determination on the part of this Government to obtain not merely reparation, but an assurance that such outrages shall not be repeated. Still there may be such a danger, and I am therefore impelled to write this private letter which I beg you will read into the gentler language of the Secretary of State. In that way, perhaps, all future misunderstandings between your Government and that of the United States will be avoided, and to secure this object I shall use all the frankness which the occasion demands.
Let me tell you, first, that I cannot find words in which to state adequately the feelings of horror, indignation and loathing which have been aroused in the minds and hearts of the American people, by the dastardly and inhuman outrage of which the Lusitania with her passengers and her crew was a victim. No warning was given. Death appeared suddenly at your orders, and more than a thousand innocent men, women and children were hurried to their doom. Their only fault was that they were going about their lawful avocations, and that in so doing they offended, forsooth, against your claim to omnipotence and terror. You had determined to shut the gates of mercy on mankind, unless mankind was willing to tremble before your sword and to do obeisance before your jack-boots. Mankind, I can assure you, will not admit that claim and American mankind as little as any other. They will recoil from you in scorn and detestation, seeing in you not the honourable warrior whose chivalry, while not impairing his strength, adds lustre to his deeds, but rather the skulking assassin who deals a felon's blow in the dark and gloats in his hiding place over the innocent blood he has shed. Hundreds of years hence this dreadful murder will still stain the escutcheon of Germany. Nothing will ever efface it or mitigate its shame, and the world, whatever may be the result of this terrible conflict, will continue to wonder how men can have planned and executed such an atrocity. On you and on no other rests the ultimate responsibility for the crime, and you will be known to distant ages as the Lusitanian Emperor.
Already I perceive that your German newspapers are singing their inspired and accustomed strain. They have been told to weep a tear or two, and, lo, in a moment they are all turned into crocodiles. They weep perfunctorily over the loss of life, but they point out, as their master commands them, that the fault is with those who are dead and with England who lured them to their fate and who still presumes to affront Germany by fighting against her on land and sea. Cæsar Borgia was a frequent and a merciless assassin in his time, but I do not think he used hypocrisy of this stamp to gloss over his crimes. Nor was he known in private life as one who made broad his phylacteries and claimed for himself and his crew of bravoes the special favour of Almighty God.
You have chosen your course, and I suppose you will endeavour to abide by it. Humanity may, perhaps, protest in vain against your arrogance and your vanity and the hideous misdeeds in which you delight. But there will come a day of retribution, when even the German nation whose chief misfortune it is to be ruled by you will see you for what you are and will shrink from the sight. And in the meantime, while I contemplate your actions with disgust and horror, I do not envy you your dreams.
Woodrow Wilson.
SHORT AND SWEET.
Before the War I had tried and tried again, and each time I had failed. Diana is so disarming. Several times I had ventured on the preliminary cough, followed by a husky "Diana, I———"
But Diana is very clever. Her invariable reply was, "What a nice boy young So-and-so is," young So-and-so being a different boy each time.
Then at the beginning of August last there came a time when for three whole days I never once thought of Diana. I was more concerned with the measurement of my chest, the soundness of my heart and the difficulty of purchasing a sword.
With the assumption of my uniform I wakened to the realisation of things. "By George," I said, "in these clothes I ought to stand a chance. I ought to be able to propose at least." I was wrong.
My first day's leave saw me in her drawing-room. "Dick," she said, "I often wonder how you manage on parade."
I stiffened. "How do you mean?"
"Well, you've such a gentle voice."
I walked to the fireplace, picked up the tongs and handed them to Diana.
"Fall in, please," I said, "and we'll show you."
Diana fell in. I cleared my throat threateningly and began———
"Diana—At-ten-tion!" (This is how it appears in the Manuals.)
"Oh, good!" she exclaimed.
"Silence in the ranks!".
I cleared my throat again. Then an idea came to me. Diana, I knew, would not talk again; she is like that.
""Stand—a—tease," I bellowed. "Diana———" She waited for the "'shun." It never came.
"I—" I began; and then I realised it was unsporting to take advantage of her enforced silence. "I—I—Eyes—right," I finished brilliantly.
"Dick, you dear," said Diana, and I felt pleased with myself.
The pleased feeling had worn off a long time when some months later we were moved to Aldershot. I wondered hopelessly if Diana would change at the last minute. We expected of course to proceed frontwards from Aldershot, and this Diana knew; so I was just a little more confident when the time came. But I got no further than the preliminary cough, for at that moment Diana's father entered, shook me warmly by the hand and presented me with some milk tabloids.
*****
A trench is an uncomfortable place to write in, and there are distractions. I had got as far as a P.S. beginning "Diana, I———" when something hit me; and a sporting companion, finding the addressed envelope and the unfinished letter, sealed it up and despatched it. But it was sufficient. The reply came by wire to the hospital—"So do I, dear. Diana."
I abandoned the idea of confirming my communication with a complete proposal, and wired back something rather snappy—"Darling," I think it was.
