The Charlotte News
Thursday, September 14, 1939
Site Ed. Note: Henry Menken's essay, "In Defense of Women", to which the editorial, "Snapshot", on the First Lady's telling candor, alludes, goes:
A man's women folk, whatever their outward show of respect for his merit and authority, always regard him secretly as an ass, and with something akin to pity. His most gaudy sayings and doings seldom deceive them; they see the actual man within, and know him for a shallow and pathetic fellow. In this fact, perhaps, lies one of the best proofs of feminine intelligence, or, as the common phrase makes it, feminine intuition. The mark of that so-called intuition is simply a sharp and accurate perception of reality, an habitual immunity to emotional enchantment, a relentless capacity for distinguishing clearly between the appearance and the substance. The appearance, in the normal family circle, is a hero, magnifico, a demigod. The substance is a poor mountebank.
The proverb that no man is a hero to his valet is obviously of masculine manufacture. It is both insincere and untrue: insincere because it merely masks the egotistic doctrine that he is potentially a hero to everyone else, and untrue because a valet, being a fourth-rate man himself, is likely to be the last person in the world to penetrate his master's charlatanry. Who ever heard of valet who didn't envy his master wholeheartedly? who wouldn't willingly change places with his master? who didn't secretly wish that he was his master? A man's wife labours under no such naive folly. She may envy her husband, true enough, certain of his more soothing prerogatives and sentimentalities. She may envy him his masculine liberty of movement and occupation, his impenetrable complacency, his peasant-like delight in petty vices, his capacity for hiding the harsh face of reality behind the cloak of romanticism, his general innocence and childishness. But she never envies him his puerile ego; she never envies him his shoddy and preposterous soul.
This shrewd perception of masculine bombast and make-believe, this acute understanding of man as the eternal tragic comedian, is at the bottom of that compassionate irony which paces under the name of the maternal instinct. A woman wishes to mother a man simply because she sees into his helplessness, his need of an amiable environment, his touching self delusion. That ironical note is not only daily apparent in real life; it sets the whole tone of feminine fiction. The woman novelist, if she be skillful enough to arise out of mere imitation into genuine self-expression, never takes her heroes quite seriously. From the day of George Sand to the day of Selma Lagerlof she has always got into her character study a touch of superior aloofness, of ill-concealed derision. I can't recall a single masculine figure created by a woman who is not, at bottom, a booby.
That it should still be necessary, at this late stage in the senility of the human race to argue that women have a fine and fluent intelligence is surely an eloquent proof of the defective observation, incurable prejudice, and general imbecility of their lords and masters. One finds very few professors of the subject, even among admitted feminists, approaching the fact as obvious; practically all of them think it necessary to bring up a vast mass of evidence to establish what should be an axiom. Even the Franco Englishman, W. L. George, one of the most sharp-witted of the faculty, wastes a whole book up on the demonstration, and then, with a great air of uttering something new, gives it the humourless title of "The Intelligence of Women." The intelligence of women, forsooth! As well devote a laborious time to the sagacity of serpents, pickpockets, or Holy Church!
Women, in truth, are not only intelligent; they have almost a monopoly of certain of the subtler and more utile forms of intelligence. The thing itself, indeed, might be reasonably described as a special feminine character; there is in it, in more than one of its manifestations, a femaleness as palpable as the femaleness of cruelty, masochism or rouge. Men are strong. Men are brave in physical combat. Men have sentiment. Men are romantic, and love what they conceive to be virtue and beauty. Men incline to faith, hope and charity. Men know how to sweat and endure. Men are amiable and fond. But in so far as they show the true fundamentals of intelligence--in so far as they reveal a capacity for discovering the kernel of eternal verity in the husk of delusion and hallucination and a passion for bringing it forth--to that extent, at least, they are feminine, and still nourished by the milk of their mothers. "Human creatures," says George, borrowing from Weininger, "are never entirely male or entirely female; there are no men, there are no women, but only sexual majorities." Find me an obviously intelligent man, a man free from sentimentality and illusion, a man hard to deceive, a man of the first class, and I'll show you a man with a wide streak of woman in him. Bonaparte had it; Goethe had it; Schopenhauer had it; Bismarck and Lincoln had it; in Shakespeare, if the Freudians are to be believed, it amounted to down right homosexuality. The essential traits and qualities of the male, the hallmarks of the unpolluted masculine, are at the same time the hall-marks of the Schalskopf. The caveman is all muscles and mush. Without a woman to rule him and think for him, he is a truly lamentable spectacle: a baby with whiskers, a rabbit with the frame of an aurochs, a feeble and preposterous caricature of God.
It would be an easy matter, indeed, to demonstrate that superior talent in man is practically always accompanied by this feminine flavour--that complete masculinity and stupidity are often indistinguishable. Lest I be misunderstood I hasten to add that I do not mean to say that masculinity contributes nothing to the complex of chemico-physiological reactions which produces what we call talent; all I mean to say is that this complex is impossible without the feminine contribution that it is a product of the interplay of the two elements. In women of genius we see the opposite picture. They are commonly distinctly mannish, and shave as well as shine. Think of George Sand, Catherine the Great, Elizabeth of England, Rosa Bonheur, Teresa Carreo or Cosima Wagner. The truth is that neither sex, without some fertilization by the complementary characters of the other, is capable of the highest reaches of human endeavour. Man, without a saving touch of woman in him, is too doltish, too naive and romantic, too easily deluded and lulled to sleep by his imagination to be anything above a cavalryman, a theologian or a bank director. And woman, without some trace of that divine innocence which is masculine, is too harshly the realist for those vast projections of the fancy which lie at the heart of what we call genius. Here, as elsewhere in the universe, the best effects are obtained by a mingling of elements. The wholly manly man lacks the wit necessary to give objective form to his soaring and secret dreams, and the wholly womanly woman is apt to be too cynical a creature to dream at all.
What men, in their egoism, constantly mistake for a deficiency of intelligence in woman is merely an incapacity for mastering that mass of small intellectual tricks, that complex of petty knowledges, that collection of cerebral rubber stamps, which constitutes the chief mental equipment of the average male. A man thinks that he is more intelligent than his wife because he can add up a column of figures more accurately, and because he understands the imbecile jargon of the stock market, and because he is able to distinguish between the ideas of rival politicians, and because he is privy to the minutiae of some sordid and degrading business or profession, say soap-selling or the law. But these empty talents, of course, are not really signs of a profound intelligence; they are, in fact, merely superficial accomplishments, and their acquirement puts little more strain on the mental powers than a chimpanzee suffers in learning how to catch a penny or scratch a match. The whole bag of tricks of the average business man, or even of the average professional man, is inordinately childish. It takes no more actual sagacity to carry on the everyday hawking and haggling of the world, or to ladle out its normal doses of bad medicine and worse law, than it takes to operate a taxicab or fry a pan of fish. No observant person, indeed, can come into close contact with the general run of business and professional men--I confine myself to those who seem to get on in the world, and exclude the admitted failures--without marvelling at their intellectual lethargy, their incurable ingenuousness, their appalling lack of ordinary sense. The late Charles Francis Adams, a grandson of one American President and a great-grandson of another, after a long lifetime in intimate association with some of the chief business "geniuses" of that paradise of traders and usurers, the United States, reported in his old age that he had never heard a single one of them say anything worth hearing. These were vigorous and masculine men, and in a man's world they were successful men, but intellectually they were all blank cartridges.
There is, indeed, fair ground for arguing that, if men of that kidney were genuinely intelligent, they would never succeed at their gross and driveling concerns--that their very capacity to master and retain such balderdash as constitutes their stock in trade is proof of their inferior mentality. The notion is certainly supported by the familiar incompetency of first rate men for what are called practical concerns. One could not think of Aristotle or Beethoven multiplying 3,472,701 by 99,999 without making a mistake, nor could one think of him remembering the range of this or that railway share for two years, or the number of ten-penny nails in a hundred weight, or the freight on lard from Galveston to Rotterdam. And by the same token one could not imagine him expert at billiards, or at grouse-shooting, or at golf, or at any other of the idiotic games at which what are called successful men commonly divert themselves. In his great study of British genius, Havelock Ellis found that an incapacity for such petty expertness was visible in almost all first rate men. They are bad at tying cravats. They do not understand the fashionable card games. They are puzzled by book-keeping. They know nothing of party politics. In brief, they are inert and impotent in the very fields of endeavour that see the average men's highest performances, and are easily surpassed by men who, in actual intelligence, are about as far below them as the Simidae.
This lack of skill at manual and mental tricks of a trivial character--which must inevitably appear to a barber or a dentist as stupidity, and to a successful haberdasher as downright imbecility--is a character that men of the first class share with women of the first, second and even third classes. There is at the bottom of it, in truth, something unmistakably feminine; its appearance in a man is almost invariably accompanied by the other touch of femaleness that I have described. Nothing, indeed, could be plainer than the fact that women, as a class, are sadly deficient in the small expertness of men as a class. One seldom, if ever, hears of them succeeding in the occupations which bring out such expertness most lavishly--for example, tuning pianos, repairing clocks, practising law, (ie., matching petty tricks with some other lawyer), painting portraits, keeping books, or managing factories--despite the circumstance that the great majority of such occupations are well within their physical powers, and that few of them offer any very formidable social barriers to female entrance. There is no external reason why women shouldn't succeed as operative surgeons; the way is wide open, the rewards are large, and there is a special demand for them on grounds of modesty. Nevertheless, not many women graduates in medicine undertake surgery and it is rare for one of them to make a success of it. There is, again, no external reason why women should not prosper at the bar, or as editors of newspapers, or as managers of the lesser sort of factories, or in the wholesale trade, or as hotel-keepers. The taboos that stand in the way are of very small force; various adventurous women have defied them with impunity; once the door is entered there remains no special handicap within. But, as every one knows, the number of women actually practising these trades and professions is very small, and few of them have attained to any distinction in competition with men.
The cause thereof, as I say, is not external, but internal. It lies in the same disconcerting apprehension of the larger realities, the same impatience with the paltry and meretricious, the same disqualification for mechanical routine and empty technic which one finds in the higher varieties of men. Even in the pursuits which, by the custom of Christendom, are especially their own, women seldom show any of that elaborately conventionalized and half automatic proficiency which is the pride and boast of most men. It is a commonplace of observation, indeed, that a housewife who actually knows how to cook, or who can make her own clothes with enough skill to conceal the fact from the most casual glance, or who is competent to instruct her children in the elements of morals, learning and hygiene--it is a platitude that such a woman is very rare indeed, and that when she is encountered she is not usually esteemed for her general intelligence. This is particularly true in the United States, where the position of women is higher than in any other civilized or semi-civilized country, and the old assumption of their intellectual inferiority has been most successfully challenged. The American dinner-table, in truth, becomes a monument to the defective technic of the American housewife. The guest who respects his oesophagus, invited to feed upon its discordant and ill-prepared victuals, evades the experience as long and as often as he can, and resigns himself to it as he might resign himself to being shaved by a paralytic. Nowhere else in the world have women more leisure and freedom to improve their minds, and nowhere else do they show a higher level of intelligence, or take part more effectively in affairs of the first importance. But nowhere else is there worse cooking in the home, or a more inept handling of the whole domestic economy, or a larger dependence upon the aid of external substitutes, by men provided, for the skill that wanting where it theoretically exists. It is surely no mere coincidence that the land of the emancipated and enthroned woman is also the land of canned soup, of canned pork and beans, of whole meals in cans, and of everything else ready-made. And nowhere else is there more striking tendency to throw the whole business of training the minds of children upon professional teachers, and the whole business of instructing them in morals and religion upon so-called Sunday-schools, and the whole business of developing and caring for their bodies upon playground experts, sex hygienists and other such professionals, most of them mountebanks.
In brief, women rebel--often unconsciously, sometimes even submitting all the while--against the dull, mechanical tricks of the trade that the present organization of society compels them to practise for a living, and that rebellion testifies to their intelligence. If they enjoyed and took pride in those tricks, and showed it by diligence and skill, they would be on all fours with such men as are headwaiters, ladies' tailors, schoolmasters or carpet-beaters, and proud of it. The inherent tendency of any woman above the most stupid is to evade the whole obligation, and, if she cannot actually evade it, to reduce its demands to the minimum. And when some accident purges her, either temporarily or permanently, of the inclination to marriage (of which much more anon), and she enters into competition with men in the general business of the world, the sort of career that she commonly carves out offers additional evidence of her mental peculiarity. In whatever calls for no more than an invariable technic and a feeble chicanery she usually fails; in whatever calls for independent thought and resourcefulness she usually succeeds. Thus she is almost always a failure as a lawyer, for the law requires only an armament of hollow phrases and stereotyped formulae, and a mental habit which puts these phantasms above sense, truth and justice; and she is almost always a failure in business, for business, in the main, is so foul a compound of trivialities and rogueries that her sense of intellectual integrity revolts against it. But she is usually a success as a sick-nurse, for that profession requires ingenuity, quick comprehension, courage in the face of novel and disconcerting situations, and above all, a capacity for penetrating and dominating character; and whenever she comes into competition with men in the arts, particularly on those secondary planes where simple nimbleness of mind is unaided by the masterstrokes of genius, she holds her own invariably. The best and most intellectual--i.e., most original and enterprising play-actors are not men, but women, and so are the best teachers and blackmailers, and a fair share of the best writers, and public functionaries, and executants of music. In the demimonde one will find enough acumen and daring, and enough resilience in the face of special difficulties, to put the equipment of any exclusively male profession to shame. If the work of the average man required half the mental agility and readiness of resource of the work of the average prostitute, the average man would be constantly on the verge of starvation.
Men, as every one knows, are disposed to question this superior intelligence of women; their egoism demands the denial, and they are seldom reflective enough to dispose of it by logical and evidential analysis. Moreover, as we shall see a bit later on, there is a certain specious appearance of soundness in their position; they have forced upon women an artificial character which well conceals their real character, and women have found it profitable to encourage the deception. But though every normal man thus cherishes the soothing unction that he is the intellectual superior of all women, and particularly of his wife, he constantly gives the lie to his pretension by consulting and deferring to what he calls her intuition. That is to say, he knows by experience that her judgment in many matters of capital concern is more subtle and searching than his own, and, being disinclined to accredit this greater sagacity to a more competent intelligence, he takes refuge behind the doctrine that it is due to some impenetrable and intangible talent for guessing correctly, some half mystical super sense, some vague (and, in essence, infra-human) instinct.
The true nature of this alleged instinct, however, is revealed by an examination of the situations which inspire a man to call it to his aid. These situations do not arise out of the purely technical problems that are his daily concern, but out of the rarer and more fundamental, and hence enormously more difficult problems which beset him only at long and irregular intervals, and go offer a test, not of his mere capacity for being drilled, but of his capacity for genuine ratiocination. No man, I take it, save one consciously inferior and hen-pecked, would consult his wife about hiring a clerk, or about extending credit to some paltry customer, or about some routine piece of tawdry swindling; but not even the most egoistic man would fail to sound the sentiment of his wife about taking a partner into his business, or about standing for public office, or about combating unfair and ruinous competition, or about marrying off their daughter. Such things are of massive importance; they lie at the foundation of well-being; they call for the best thought that the man confronted by them can muster; the perils hidden in a wrong decision overcome even the clamors of vanity. It is in such situations that the superior mental grasp of women is of obvious utility, and has to be admitted. It is here that they rise above the insignificant sentimentalities, superstitions and formulae of men, and apply to the business their singular talent for separating the appearance from the substance, and so exercise what is called their intuition.
Intuition? With all respect, bosh! Then it was intuition that led Darwin to work out the hypothesis of natural selection. Then it was intuition that fabricated the gigantically complex score of "Die Walkure." Then it was intuition that convinced Columbus of the existence of land to the west of the Azores. All this intuition of which so much transcendental rubbish is merchanted is no more and no less than intelligence--intelligence so keen that it can penetrate to the hidden truth through the most formidable wrappings of false semblance and demeanour, and so little corrupted by sentimental prudery that it is equal to the even more difficult task of hauling that truth out into the light, in all its naked hideousness. Women decide the larger questions of life correctly and quickly, not because they are lucky guessers, not because they are divinely inspired, not because they practise a magic inherited from savagery, but simply and solely because they have sense. They see at a glance what most men could not see with searchlights and telescopes; they are at grips with the essentials of a problem before men have finished debating its mere externals. They are the supreme realists of the race. Apparently illogical, they are the possessors of a rare and subtle super-logic. Apparently whimsical, they hang to the truth with a tenacity which carries them through every phase of its incessant, jellylike shifting of form. Apparently unobservant and easily deceived, they see with bright and horrible eyes. In men, too, the same merciless perspicacity sometimes shows itself--men recognized to be more aloof and uninflammable than the general--men of special talent for the logical--sardonic men, cynics. Men, too, sometimes have brains. But that is a rare, rare man, I venture, who is as steadily intelligent, as constantly sound in judgment, as little put off by appearances, as the average women of forty-eight.
The rest of the five-part essay may be read here. Whether there is a grain of truth in what he says, we venture, may be measured only by a particular time, society, socialization process, and by each individual man or woman living within it, whether the individual departs from the constructs of the inherent mold into which one is born in that process or accepts and embraces its constraints with one degree or another of enthusiasm. Just how much is nurture and how much is due to the Y factor, we couldn't tell you, having first-hand experience at only one side of that divide. And observation, perpetually locked within one's own socialization and hormonal complex, can often be as deceiving as, well, Lady Macbeth, Madame Defarge?--Ms. O'Hara? Mr. Butler?
So, can one ever generalize traits between the sexes to any end--those heralded in stereotype by much of classic literature, indeed, much of acculturation generally, and its effect, subconscious or otherwise, on our young roving eye bent on role typing ourselves to become a perfect fit to the proper sort to be admired, notwithstanding--beyond describing only human variations in general?
Take an example we recently observed, seeming, at first glance, altogether to confirm some of Henry's thesis as being valid even unto this day. We were at a place of research, and a pair of female researchers, probably thirtyish, apparent neophytes to the game, were having trouble with an aging mechanical device designed to read microfilm. They could not for their lives determine how to make the infernal machine stop spooling once the knob for rewinding the film had been turned to make it go round and round, zippee-zip-flap-flap-flap. Several gentlemen came to their ready aid, (probably in part to stop the infernal racket of the flap-flap cacophony interrupting otherwise blissful sleep), quite in the chivalrous fashion one would expect, especially in an old Southern town where we were at the time. Nevertheless, though the ladies managed to get the reel to stop spinning, they never could quite get it down as to how to get the film, once in, out of the machine, and so left it there, light on and all.
Just two people not mechanically inclined, we thought.
Then within minutes after they departed, another female researcher, also an apparent neophyte, sat down before the same machine--and quickly encountered the very same problem, causing her to summon a staff person. Whereupon the staff person, a female, politely instructed her to return the knob to its "12 o' clock position", (where you feel the eccentric click, madam), and voila! She stops on a dime.
Well, one could sit all day and observe this machine, of course, day after day, keep statistics in a notebook, run a mean-median analysis curve on the random sample thus obtained, assess the probability of chance, and then purport to create some study of the relative comparison of males to females who encounter the same problem; then, from it, generalize to some half-way seemingly sound analysis of the relative traits of females and males to problem-solving on mechanical devices with which they are unfamiliar at the start.
On the other hand, one could fix the damned worn out machine, which probably, judging by our own past experience with this particular bunch of machines, wasn't clicking very well on its worn out eccentric.
Whatever the answer, as always, Henry knew best. And so his wisdom is always worth a gander, even if decidedly opinionated, as he of course prided himself on being. And to have an opinion, that being a determinedly feminine characteristic, say the masters of such dividing lines along sex, is always better for stimulating a conversation, as well as editorial commentary, than to have none and doltishly say something like, "Ahuh. That's fine with me, honey."
Incidentally, an elderly gentleman, also doing research, seated near to the aforesaid female researchers who couldn't master the rewind knob, alerted the female staff person, after the others had left, that he had turned off the machine with the microfilm still in place, explaining fully that he thought it not to be a good thing for the light to be left on indefinitely that way, shining on the microfilm: "The girls who were here before didn't know how to work it, I think. They were just learning." The staff person replied, "That's okay." "Oh yes," he quickly added with modesty, "we all have to learn. I'm just learning, too."
And so we do, over time, individual to individual.
People is just people, after all. Quite Frankly.
Salute To Toilers
Let No One Say That These Are Afraid Of Work
They showed up by George: 132 of them, anyhow. An assorted crew of old, young, black and white, city-born and country-bred. Bright and early they were there, and they piled into trucks and went out to pick cotton or shell peas or do any other jobs which cried to be done on the farm at the season of the year.
Most of them had been cut off WPA a while back, you see, because they had been eighteen months or more on relief. And they had been pestering to get back on, after the required interval had elapsed; and there wasn't room for them again. Welfare offices were crowded with applicants.
All along the farmers had been calling for help, and calling in vain. So it was decided to introduce the relief supply to the farm demand, and they were expressly told that as long as there was work in the fields to be done, relief was out, and that those who worked would get first call on WPA places as they became available. Those who refused would have to look after themselves.
And that, messires, for all its hard-heartedness, is the traditional American way. So was the response. They went to the fields, almost daily, and the welfare offices were empty for the first time in weeks. In money they earned perhaps a dollar or less apiece--a hundred pounds of cotton is a mighty lot of picking for 50 cents--but in actuality they earned more than that. They earned the name of men and women who are not afraid of work, hence who qualify for unemployment relief.
Lady Eleanor Catches Her Lord In Typical Mood
Years ago old Henry L. Mencken published a book called "In Defense of Women," in which he argued, more or less tongue in cheek, that women see through their husbands with devastating insight, and look upon them privately with a great deal of sardonic amusement, mixed with not a little impatience for their smug posturing.
Whether that is so or not, or has any bearing on the case in hand, we dunno. But anyhow, you have to hand it to Lady Eleanor Roosevelt that she knows her lord and master well.
How she ever came to set it down is a puzzler which interests us no little. Did the lady, dictating, perhaps nod a bit, and allow the subconscious to take momentary charge? Was she in one of those inexplicable feminine moods which all husbands, and indeed, all males who have come of any age, know too painfully? Or was she simply so tickled that she just had to say it? Again we don't know.
But there it is--a long paragraph in her column, "My Day," for Wednesday, Sept. 13. Millions of apoplectic conservatives have poured out billions on billions of choleric words trying to say it, thousands of sweating journalists have written tons on tons of manuscript. But in eighty little words, the lady sums it up deftly and magnificently:
After lunch yesterday my mother wanted to go over to look at a barn which the President is interested in changing into a house. As usual, the President thinks it can be done far more economically than the rest of us do. I was glad to have my brother bear me out but our combined arguments had no effect on the President, who said cheerfully, "Well, we will wait and see," with the calm conviction that he could perform miracles.
Permit us to add, Madam, that as long as your husband essays miracles on his own time and at his own expense, we have not the slightest objection.
The Pros And Cons Of A Scheme For Alaska
Under the direction of Secretary Ickes, the Department of the Interior is now drafting legislation looking to the settlement of refugees from Germany and other lands in Alaska, under an arrangement that would not at the same time give them free entry to the United States proper.
Arguments made for this are: (1) that is necessary to the national defense, and (2) that it is economically desirable to develop the huge possession, which presently has a population of only about 60,000 people.
The project, on the face of it, is commendable. The defense of the territory is certainly a problem at present. One of Russia's pressing reasons for getting rid of it cheaply was her realization that it would be impossible for her to defend it. We have plans for establishing naval air bases at Kodiak and other places. And the fortification of the Aleutian Islands is under consideration. Nevertheless, a larger population would be desirable from a military standpoint.
On the economic side--the land has at least 65,000 square miles of arable land, somewhat over 4,000,000 acres, with only 25,000 acres now under cultivation. And the combined farming and grazing lands probably come to 25,000 square miles. Wheat, rice, oats, barley; the hardier vegetables such as radishes, turnips, potatoes, mustard, carrots, peas, cabbage, onions, beets; hay--all these can be grown there. And it seems a shame to think of all this being useless with the refugees in desperate need.
But the project had its difficulties. Authorities are agreed that there is little possibility of developing an important export agricultural market for the land. And that leaves only the present small industrial population, mainly engaged in the canneries and in gold mining to provide a market. The possession has huge lumber resources, but they are mainly tied up in the national forest reservation at present and are not open to exploitation. Moreover, if they were opened up, it would still be necessary to furnish adequate rail or road transportation to get them out, and it is questionable that would be worth the cost from an economic standpoint.
That leaves only subsistence farming as feasible. And subsistence farming, however nice it looks in theory, has its drawbacks. It calls for relatively high Government outlay for roads, schools, etc., and yields little to the state in the way of taxation.
The Rains Come
Too Late, But Poland's Case Is Not Settled Yet
Ironically, the rains seem at last to have started in Poland. But it is perhaps too late to save the Poles now. Our reports come mainly from Germany, of course, and so must be taken with more than ordinary caution. For even the Associated Press reporters there must accept the official version of the case or go completely without information of any sort.
Nevertheless, the story of Lloyd Lehrbas from Bucharest, to the effect that Polish officials are fleeing over the boundary into Rumania, suggest that the game is really about up. As this is written, Warsaw has not yet fallen, but it seems to have been turned into a mass of ruins and shambles, and it is incredible that the heartbreakingly heroic defense which has been going on for five days can last much longer. And the Polish lines along the Vistula have been broken. Worse, if it is true that Lwow is about to fall, Polish contact with Rumania, the single remaining source of supplies, is about to be cut off. The Polish armies may yet rally in the morass of Eastern Poland and hold the German armies for the Winter. But the chances are that the whole land will shortly be overrun.
It does not follow that the case of Poland is hopeless, or that Hitler is on his way to ultimate victory. Merely, Poland has been overrun more quickly than anybody expected. But realists never supposed that she would not be overrun eventually. Her fate depends entirely on the destruction of Germany. And however effective Blitzkrieg has been in the East, the West is something else.
Nor is it true that Hitler will now be in position to throw his whole weight to the Western Front. It is not likely that the Poles will surrender, and even if they did, a large army of occupation will be required.
Moreover, however much Mussolini may trumpet that Italy's decision is in her own hands, it isn't. Before very long, she is going inevitably to have to make up her mind to retire into complete and genuine neutrality, else to show her colors. And in either case Hitler will be struck on the south and perhaps through Rumania. Further, once the Italian case is settled, the British and French fleets will be released to concentrate on the Baltic, with a view to penetrating it and invading Germany from the north.
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