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The other, having served his country in the field for many years, now
sat intrenched behind a roll-top desk, directing the machinery of the
War Office, with a pencil for a baton. Kitchener was in his robust
sixties, with a breast like a barrel; Von Heeringen was in his
shrinking, drying-up seventies, and his broad shoulders had already
begun to fold in on his ribs and his big black eyes to retreat deeper
into his skull. One was beaky-nosed, hatchet-headed, bearded; the other
was broad-faced and shaggily mustached. One had been famed for his
accessibility; the other for his inaccessibility.
So, because of these acutely dissimilar things, I marveled to myself
that day in London why, when I looked at Kitchener, I should think of
Von Heeringen. In another minute, though, I knew why: Both men radiated
the same quality of masterfulness; both of them physically typified
competency; both of them looked on the world with the eyes of men who
are born to have power and to hold dominion over lesser men.


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