Volume II Part 28 (1/2)

Presently the ladies withdrew. Page found himself sitting next to Mr.

Harold Nicolson, an important official in the Foreign Office. It so happened that Mr. Nicolson and Page were the only two members of the company who were the possessors of a great secret which made ineffably silly all the chatter that had taken place during the dinner; this was that the United States had decided on war against Germany and would issue the declaration in a few days.

”Well, Mr. Nicolson,” said Page, ”I think that you and I will drink a gla.s.s of wine together.”

The two men quietly lifted their gla.s.ses and drank the silent toast.

Neither made the slightest reference to the forthcoming event. Perhaps the other men present were a little mystified, but in a few days they understood what it had meant, and also learned how effectively they had been rebuked.

”Is it any wonder,” says Mr. Nicolson, telling this story, ”that I think that Mr. Page is perhaps the greatest gentleman I have ever known? He has only one possible compet.i.tor for this distinction--and that is Arthur Balfour.”

The English newspapers took delight in printing Page's aphorisms, and several anecdotes that came from America afforded them especial joy. One went back to the days when the Amba.s.sador was editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_. A woman contributor had sent him a story; like most literary novices she believed that editors usually rejected the ma.n.u.scripts of unknown writers without reading them. She therefore set a trap for Page by pasting together certain sheets. The ma.n.u.script came back promptly, and, as the prospective contributor had hoped, these sheets had not been disturbed. These particular sections had certainly not been read. The angry author triumphantly wrote to Page, explaining how she had caught him and denouncing the whole editorial tribe as humbugs. ”Dear Madam,”

Page immediately wrote in reply, ”when I break an egg at breakfast, I do not have to eat the whole of it to find out that it is bad.” Page's treatment of authors, however, was by no means so acrimonious as this little note might imply. Indeed, the urbanity and consideration shown in his correspondence with writers had long been a tradition in American letters. The remark of O. Henry in this regard promises to become immortal: ”Page could reject a story with a letter that was so complimentary,” he said, ”and make everybody feel so happy that you could take it to a bank and borrow money on it.”

Another anecdote reminiscent of his editorial days was his retort to S.S. McClure, the editor of _McClure's Magazine_.

”Page,” said Mr. McClure, ”there are only three great editors in the United States.”

”Who's the third one, Sam?” asked Page.

Plenty of stories, ill.u.s.trating Page's quickness and aptness in retort, have gathered about his name in England. Many of them indicate a mere spirit of boyish fun. Early in his Amba.s.sadors.h.i.+p he was spending a few days at Stratford-on-Avon, his hostess being an American woman who had beautifully restored an Elizabethan house; the garden contained a mulberry tree which she liked to think had been planted by Shakespeare himself. The dignitaries of Stratford, learning that the American Amba.s.sador had reached town, asked permission to wait upon him; the Lord Mayor, who headed the procession, made an excellent speech, to which Page appropriately replied, and several hundred people were solemnly presented. After the party had left Page turned to his hostess:

”Have they all gone?”

”Yes.”

”All?”

”Yes.”

”Are you sure?”

”Yes.”

”Then let's take hands and dance around the mulberry tree!”

Page was as good as his word; he danced as gaily as the youngest member of the party, to the singing of the old English song.

The great service in St. Paul's Cathedral, in commemoration of America's entry into the war, has already been described. A number of wounded Americans, boys whose zeal for the Allies had led them to enlist in the Canadian Army, were conspicuous partic.i.p.ants in this celebration. After the solemn religious ceremonies, the Amba.s.sador and these young men betook themselves for lunch to a well-known London restaurant. In an interval of the conversation one of the Americans turned to Page.

”Mr. Amba.s.sador, there was just one thing wrong with that service.”

”What was that?”

”We wanted to yell, and we couldn't.”

”Then why don't you yell now?”

The boy jumped on a chair and began waving his napkin. ”The Amba.s.sador says we may yell,” he cried. ”Let's yell!”

”And so,” said Page, telling the story, ”they yelled for five minutes and I yelled with them. We all felt better in consequence.”

This geniality, this disposition not to take life too solemnly, sometimes lightened up the sombre atmosphere of the Foreign Office itself. ”Mr. Balfour went on a sort of mild rampage yesterday,” Page records. ”The British and American navies had come to an arrangement whereby the Brazilian s.h.i.+ps that are coming over to help us fight should join the American unit, not the British, as was at first proposed. Was.h.i.+ngton telegraphed me that the British Minister at Rio was blocking the game by standing out for the first British idea--that the Brazilian s.h.i.+ps should join the British. It turned out in the conversation that the British Minister had not been informed of the British-American naval arrangement. Mr. Balfour sent for Lord Hardinge.

He called in one of the private secretaries. Was such a thing ever heard of?