As I listen to Mustapha Kemal, taking advantage the while of his gracious invitation to thaw my frozen toes and hands at the wood fire, I wonder what a “keen soldier” would not have given to be in my place, with the chance of hearing a private lecture from one of the world’s great generals, a man not more than forty. “Were you ever in doubt of success?” I asked. “No, never,” he replied. “I saw the whole scheme from the first (even when we had no munitions), just as it finally worked out. We delayed—to save bloodshed and devastation. Fethi Bey went to London as a last resource, because we wanted a treaty—in ink, not in blood.” Is not that last effort for peace, perhaps, this great man’s finest gesture to a war-ridden generation? Knowing the glory he could win for himself, in the certainty of strength for conquest, he yet made three separate attempts to persuade the Powers to enforce a peaceful retirement upon the Greeks. Preparation is not relaxed; no detail has been forgotten; the peasant armies are ready in Anatolia, wondering why, since peace lingers, the Great Chief does not fight! One of his generals told me later: “You cannot judge “The Pasha” until you have seen him commanding his army. No man could be more fearless, more hard on himself, or kinder to his men. He simply ignores pain, though a rib be driven into his lungs; and when he leads them, the soldiers know all is well. ‘His star is good,’ they say, and they have no use for generals in the East for whom the stars are known to predict ill. His mind works rapidly to clear decisions. Above all, he never loses his head, and his judgment is sound.” Without this universal, unstinting affection and esteem from both officers and men, Mustapha Kemal could never have established the Assembly and created a new Turkey. When he had thus realised the vision of his ardent youth, that never left him through years of exile, revolt, and disgrace; when, at any moment now, he could declare himself Dictator, he will not steal responsibility from the people’s representatives. “The Assembly,” he says, “is not one man; I am only its President.” He dislikes hearing the word “Kemalist.” “It does not carry with it the spirit of the movement, which will go on, whether I am dead or alive.” If one speaks to him about his own work, he either answers: “I did my duty,” or refers all honour to the Assembly. I have talked with many of Europe’s great statesmen, but found none more modest than he. Yet who among them has snatched such triumph from odds as opposing? * * * * *