The world had come to call the French people light, fickle, inconstant, volatile, incapable of grave and deep emotions. That was the popular American idea of France up to 1914. The man who would voice that idea now would be treated with anger or silent contempt by all the world. Now we know the silent, modest, simple, enduring faith, the unfaltering courage, the undying flame of heart which made the real France.
We thought Great Britain cold, phlegmatic, emotionless. Who would say that to-day of a brave and strong people trying their best to ask us not to mention their battles against odds, their steadfast courage in holding the line, but to feel and understand the real admiration and love Britain really feels for us in these days.
We Americans thought ourselves above fickleness and lightness always, boasted always of our common sense and steady practical point of view. We called France hysterical. Was it so? No. Once again popular counsel is wrong. It is we Americans who are the most hysterical people in the world. We make a purpose and forget it. We erect a hero and forget him. We believe, boast, acclaim, hurrah—and forget. We are easily excited—it is we who most easily grow “high headed,” as the French say. It is we, of all nations, who most quickly forget.
In that fact regarding the American character lies the great hope of Germany to-day. It is the great fear of our gallant friends in arms, who held the line from which we so long were absent. It is the great danger of America. Lest we forget! Lest we forget! The danger is that we shall forget. And if we do, the great victory of this war is lost.
Our Army is turned back toward home again. We greet our soldiers with much blare of trumpets. We mention large plans of industry for to-morrow. We slap each man in uniform on the back and say: “Fine! Noble! You are a hero! You have saved the world!”
But to-morrow—To-morrow! And once more, what of to-morrow!
The soldier comes back to his old world shyly glad that he still lives, hoping for the renewed touch of hands he knew, seeking the place in life that once was his. But, in spite of our protestations, that place is no longer his. It is as though he really were dead. The waters have closed over his place and he is no more. To-morrow he is forgotten—and he may listen to stay-at-home stories of how the war was fought and won—the “history” of this war, which, like all other history, will not be the truth but what we all accept as the truth because that is the easiest thing to do.
But if the soldiers of this country are to come back only to the old America, the hurrying, scrambling, hectic, hysterical America—and those are our deserved adjectives more than any other people’s—then we have not won this war but have lost it.
Our quarrel with yonder foe is not done. We shall have been faithless to our own blood and kin if now we forget. The war begins now; not ends. It must yet be fought out here at home in America. It will require all our courage to win it; if indeed it can still be won.
There have been some great editorials struck off in the white heat of American conviction in these tremendous days following the Armistice and before the conclusion of the Peace Conference. Here is one from a Chicago journal which ought to be read and remembered by every statesman and every citizen in America.