tness may never fail when it has time and space in which to
express itself; but many virtues of intellect and character are
necessary when time is of the essence of the contract, and more
especially in a situation of shared responsibility.

Lord Kitchener knew many of his own failings. He was by no means a vain
man. Indeed he suffered considerable pain from the knowledge that he was
not the tremendous person of the popular imagination. This knowledge
robbed him of self-assurance. He tried to live up to the legendary
Kitchener, and so long as he could find men as brave as himself, but of
swifter and more adaptable intelligence, to do his bidding, he
succeeded: many of the public, indeed, believed in the legendary
Kitchener up to the day of his tragic death--death, that unmistakable
reality, meeting him on a journey, the object of which was to impress
Russia with the legendary Kitchener. But more and more, particularly in
consultation with the quick wits of politicians, he found it impossible
to impersonate his reputation.

I have been told by more than one Cabinet Minister that it was
impressive to see how the lightning intellects of Mr. Lloyd George and
Mr. Winston Churchill again and again reduced the gigantic soldier to a
stupefied and sulking silence.

A proposal would be made by a minister, and Mr. Asquith would turn to
Lord Kitchener for his opinion. Lord Kitchener would say, "It's
impossible," and close his lips firmly. At this Mr. Lloyd George would
attack him, pointing out the reasonableness of this proposal in swift
and persuasive phrases. Lord Kitchener, shifting on his chair, would
repeat, "It's impossible." Then in question after question Mr. Churchill
would ask why it was impossible. "It's impossible," Lord Kitchener would
mumble at the end of these questions. Finally, when nearly everybody had
attempted to extract from him the reason for his refusal to countenance
this proposal, he would make an impatient side movement of his head,
unfold his arms, bend over the papers on the table before him, and grunt
out, sometimes with a boyish smile of relief, "Oh, all right, have it
your own way."

He lacked almost every grace of the spirit. There was nothing amiable in
his character. Very few men liked him a great deal, and none I should
say loved him. I do not think he was brutal by nature, although his
nature was not refined; but he cultivated a brutal manner. He had the
happiness of three or four friendships