Instead today, the populace, in its naive enthusiasm, flattered in its vanity, hearing promises of its needs being fulfilled, suddenly becomes the princess with the red rose. The populace will elect anyone, man or woman, to our parliament, our representatives will sit in Delhi, in London, in Paris, they will make laws to bring us happiness, to reduce tensions that there shall be no war with Germany, with China, to make the rich poorer and the poor richer, coal miners will now live in castles, maharajas will now live like simple citizens, after the Meijji revolution there will be no aristocrats left in Nippon, Liberté, Egalité and Fraternité will be chalked on the churches of France—Paul Doumer has been elected president at Versailles. After multiple party ‘combines’, the left of the right, the middle of the centre, the moderates of the left, the radical socialists (who were truly liberals), the republican democrats, and so on, France has at last voted in a president. Father of the family, a good citizen who pays his taxes properly, married once and only once, he has no vices, he will be a good president. The populace has chosen those who together (as parliament) have chosen he who will be president, the people’s truth the only truth. A coach with four black horses, attelage à la daumont, and Napoleonic side riders, swords sheer uplifted, will procession down the long, broad Etoile. And the Marseillaise will be played by the guards as the new president enters the Elysee Palace. Vive le President!

Was Paul Doumer shadowless? No. The red rose faded with time. He was shot dead by a crazy Russian. Then came Lebrun.7 Hitler now arose. Mussolini was soon boasting of his feats in Ethiopia. The League of Nations was helpless—the League was composed of many Lebruns. People went to war. The princess had become a beggar in the streets, and like in some Wagnerian opera she hid in the mountains, but who was there to speak for the queen? Far away in the subject land of India, there was a humble man who seemed to be speaking of something that resembled the knowledge of the rose. Maybe he might. His name was Gandhi, he spoke of the Truth. Meanwhile some fifty million had died, in Europe, in Asia, because they could not resolve the conundrum of the red rose.

VII

Edward Mandel House was a rich Texan, who having organized his wealth to satisfaction, decided to play a noble part in the great game of politics. He was our ‘princess’ with the red rose. ‘I have no ambition to hold office,’ he wrote. This was not because he did not want to be the supreme guide of the state, but because his ambition was too ambitious—he wanted power, which could only do good. ‘My ambition,’ he explained, ‘has been so great that it has never seemed to me to be worthwhile to satisfy it.’8