Our mutual relations are further complicated by the possession of a
common language.

In theory, a common tongue should be a bond of union between
nations--a channel for the interchange of great thoughts and friendly
sentiments. In practice, what is it?

Let us take a concrete example. Supposing an American woman and a
Dutch woman live next door to one another in a New York suburb. As a
rule they maintain friendly relations; but if at any time these
relations become strained--say, over the encroachments of depredatory
chickens, or the obstruction of some one's ancient lights by the
over-exuberance of some one else's laundry--the two ladies are enabled
to say the most dreadful things to one another without any one being a
penny the worse. _They do not understand one another's language._ But
if they speak a common tongue, the words which pass when the most
ephemeral squabble arises stick and rankle.

Again, for many years the people of Great Britain were extremely
critical of Russia. Well-meaning stay-at-home gentlemen constantly
rose to their feet in the House of Commons and made withering remarks
on the subject of knouts, and Cossacks, and vodka. But they did no
harm. The Russian people do not understand English. In the same way,
Russians were probably accustomed to utter equally reliable criticisms
of the home-life of Great Britain--land-grabbing, and hypocrisy, and
whiskey, and so on. But we knew nothing of all this, and all was well.
There was not the slightest difficulty, when the great world-crash
came, in forming the warmest alliance with Russia.