From the archives of The Memory Hole |
The Conference
In chapters IV. and V. I shall study in some detail the economic and
financial provisions of the treaty of peace with Germany. But it will
be easier to appreciate the true origin of many of these terms if we
examine here some of the personal factors which influenced their
preparation. In attempting this task I touch, inevitably, questions of
motive, on which spectators are liable to error and are not entitled to
take on themselves the responsibilities of final judgment. Yet, if I
seem in this chapter to assume sometimes the liberties which are
habitual to historians, but which, in spite of the greater knowledge
with which we speak, we generally hesitate to assume towards
contemporaries, let the reader excuse me when he remembers how greatly,
if it is to understand its destiny, the world needs light, even if it
is partial and uncertain, on the complex struggle of human will and
purpose, not yet finished, which, concentrated in the persons of four
individuals in a manner never paralleled, made them in the first months
of 1919 the microcosm of mankind.
In those parts of the treaty with which I am here concerned, the
lead was taken by the French, in the sense that it was generally they
who made in the first instance the most definite and the most extreme
proposals. This was partly a matter of tactics. When the final result
is expected to be a compromise, it is often prudent to start from an
extreme position; and the French anticipated at the outset like most
other persons a double process of compromise, first of all to suit
the ideas of their allies and associates, and secondly in the course of
the peace conference proper with the Germans themselves. These tactics
were justified by the event. Clemenceau gained a reputation for
moderation with his colleagues in council by sometimes throwing over
with an air of intellectual impartiality the more extreme proposals of
his ministers; and much went through where the American and British
critics were naturally a little ignorant of the true point at issue, or
where too persistent criticism by France's allies put them in a
position which they felt as invidious, of always appearing to take the
enemy's part and to argue his case. Where, therefore, British and
American interests were not seriously involved their criticism grew
slack, and some provisions were thus passed which the French themselves
did not take very seriously, and for which the eleventh-hour decision
to allow no discussion with the Germans removed the opportunity of
remedy.
But, apart from tactics, the French had a policy. Although
Clemenceau might curtly abandon the claims of a Klotz or a Loucheur, or
close his eyes with an air of fatigue when French interests were no
longer involved in the discussion, he knew which points were vital, and
these he abated little. In so far as the main economic lines of the
treaty represent an intellectual idea, it is the idea of France and of
Clemenceau.
Clemenceau was by far the most eminent member of the Council of
Four, and he had taken the measure of his colleagues. He alone both had
an idea and had considered it in all its consequences. His age, his
character, his wit, and his appearance joined to give him objectivity
and a defined outline in an environment of confusion. One could not
despise Clemenceau or dislike him, but only take a different view as to
the nature of civilised man, or indulge, at least, a different hope.
The figure and bearing of Clemenceau are universally familiar. At
the Council of Four he wore a square-tailed coat of a very good, thick
black broadcloth, and on his hands, which were never uncovered, grey
suede gloves; his boots were of thick black leather, very good, but of
a country style, and sometimes fastened in front, curiously, by a
buckle instead of laces. His seat in the room in the President's house,
where the regular meetings of the Council of Four were held (as
distinguished from their private and unattended conferences in a
smaller chamber below), was on a square brocaded chair in the middle of
the semicircle facing the fire-place, with Signor Orlando on his left,
the President next by the fire-place, and the Prime Minister opposite
on the other side of the fire-place on his right. He carried no papers
and no portfolio, and was unattended by any personal secretary, though
several French ministers and officials appropriate to the particular
matter in hand would be present round him. His walk, his hand, and his
voice were not lacking in vigour, but he bore nevertheless, especially
after the attempt upon him, the aspect of a very old man conserving his
strength for important occasions. He spoke seldom, leaving the initial
statement of the French case to his ministers or officials; he closed
his eyes often and sat back in his chair with an impassive face of
parchment, his grey-gloved hands clasped in front of him. A short
sentence, decisive or cynical, was generally sufficient, a question, an
unqualified abandonment of his ministers, whose face would not be
saved, or a display of obstinacy reinforced by a few words in a
piquantly delivered English.(1*) But speech and passion were not
lacking when they were wanted, and the sudden outburst of words, often
followed by a fit of deep coughing from the chest, produced their
impression rather by force and surprise than by persuasion.
Not infrequently Mr Lloyd George, after delivering a speech in
English, would, during the period of its interpretation into French,
cross the hearth-rug to the President to reinforce his case by some ad
hominem argument in private conversation, or to sound the ground for a
compromise and this would sometimes be the signal for a general
upheaval and disorder. The President's advisers would press round him,
a moment later the British experts would dribble across to learn the
result or see that all was well, and next the French would be there, a
little suspicious lest the others were arranging something behind them,
until all the room were on their feet and conversation was general in
both languages. My last and most vivid impression is of such a scene
the President and the Prime Minister as the centre of a surging mob and
a babel of sound, a welter of eager, impromptu compromises and
counter-compromises, all sound and fury signifying nothing, on what was
an unreal question anyhow, the great issues of the morning's meeting
forgotten and neglected; and Clemenceau, silent and aloof on the
outskirts for nothing which touched the security of France was
forward throned, in his grey gloves, on the brocade chair, dry in
soul and empty of hope, very old and tired, but surveying the scene
with a cynical and almost impish air; and when at last silence was
restored and the company had returned to their places, it was to
discover that he had disappeared.
He felt about France what Pericles felt of Athens unique value
in her, nothing else mattering; but his theory of politics was
Bismarck's. He had one illusion France; and one disillusion
mankind, including Frenchmen, and his colleagues not least. His
principles for the peace can be expressed simply. In the first place,
he was a foremost believer in the view of German psychology that the
German understands and can understand nothing but intimidation, that he
is without generosity or remorse in negotiation, that there is no
advantage he will not take of you, and no extent to which he will not
demean himself for profit, that he is without honour, pride, or mercy.
Therefore you must never negotiate with a German or conciliate him; you
must dictate to him. On no other terms will he respect you, or will you
prevent him from cheating you. But it is doubtful how far he thought
these characteristics peculiar to Germany, or whether his candid view
of some other nations was fundamentally different. His philosophy had,
therefore, no place for 'sentimentality' in international relations.
Nations are real things, of whom you love one and feel for the rest
indifference or hatred. The glory of the nation you love is a
desirable end but generally to be obtained at your neighbour's
expense. The politics of power are inevitable, and there is nothing
very new to learn about this war or the end it was fought for; England
had destroyed, as in each preceding century, a trade rival; a mighty
chapter had been closed in the secular struggle between the glories of
Germany and of France. Prudence required some measure of lip service to
the 'ideals' of foolish Americans and hypocritical Englishmen; but it
would be stupid to believe that there is much room in the world, as it
really is, for such affairs as the League of Nations, or any sense in
the principle of self-determination except as an ingenious formula for
rearranging the balance of power in one's own interests.
These, however, are generalities. In tracing the practical details
of the peace which he thought necessary for the power and the security
of France, we must go back to the historical causes which had operated
during his lifetime. Before the Franco-German war the populations of
France and Germany were approximately equal; but the coal and iron and
shipping of Germany were in their infancy, and the wealth of France was
greatly superior. Even after the loss of Alsace-Lorraine there was no
great discrepancy between the real resources of the two countries. But
in the intervening period the relative position had changed completely.
By 1914 the population of Germany was nearly seventy per cent in excess
of that of France; she had become one of the first manufacturing and
trading nations of the world; her technical skill and her means for the
production of future wealth were unequalled. France on the other hand
had a stationary or declining population, and, relatively to others,
had fallen seriously behind in wealth and in the power to produce it.
In spite, therefore, of France's victorious issue from the present
struggle (with the aid, this time, of England and America), her future
position remained precarious in the eyes of one who took the view that
European civil war is to be regarded as a normal, or at least a
recurrent, state of affairs for the future, and that the sort of
conflicts between organised Great Powers which have occupied the past
hundred years will also engage the next. According to this vision of
the future, European history is to be a perpetual prize-fight, of which
France has won this round, but of which this round is certainly not the
last. From the belief that essentially the old order does not change,
being based on human nature which is always the same, and from a
consequent scepticism of all that class of doctrine which the League of
Nations stands for, the policy of France and of Clemenceau followed
logically. For a peace of magnanimity or of fair and equal treatment,
based on such 'ideology' as the Fourteen Points of the President, could
only have the effect of shortening the interval of Germany's recovery
and hastening the day when she will once again hurl at France her
greater numbers and her superior resources and technical skill. Hence
the necessity of 'guarantees'; and each guarantee that was taken, by
increasing irritation and thus the probability of a subsequent Revanche
by Germany, made necessary yet further provisions to crush. Thus, as
soon as this view of the world is adopted and the other discarded, a
demand for a Carthaginian peace is inevitable, to the full extent of
the momentary power to impose it. For Clemenceau made no pretence of
considering himself bound by the Fourteen Points and left chiefly to
others such concoctions as were necessary from time to time to save the
scruples or the face of the President.
So far as possible, therefore, it was the policy of France to set
the clock back and to undo what, since 1870, the progress of Germany
had accomplished. By loss of territory and other measures her
population was to be curtailed; but chiefly the economic system, upon
which she depended for her new strength, the vast fabric built upon
iron, coal, and transport, must be destroyed. If France could seize,
even in part, what Germany was compelled to drop, the inequality of
strength between the two rivals for European hegemony might be remedied
for many generations.
Hence sprang those cumulative provisions for the destruction of
highly organised economic life which we shall examine in the next
chapter.
This is the policy of an old man, whose most vivid impressions and
most lively imagination are of the past and not of the future. He sees
the issue in terms of France and Germany, not of humanity and of
European civilisation struggling forwards to a new order. The war has
bitten into his consciousness somewhat differently from ours, and he
neither expects nor hopes that we are at the threshold of a new age.
It happens, however, that it is not only an ideal question that is
at issue. My purpose in this book is to show that the Carthaginian
peace is not practically right or possible. Although the school of
thought from which it springs is aware of the economic factor, it
overlooks, nevertheless, the deeper economic tendencies which are to
govern the future. The clock cannot be set back. You cannot restore
Central Europe to 1870 without setting up such strains in the European
structure and letting loose such human and spiritual forces as, pushing
beyond frontiers and races, will overwhelm not only you and your
'guarantees', but your institutions, and the existing order of your
society.
By what legerdemain was this policy substituted for the Fourteen
Points, and how did the President come to accept it? The answer to
these questions is difficult and depends on elements of character and
psychology and on the subtle influence of surroundings, which are hard
to detect and harder still to describe. But, if ever the action of a
single individual matters, the collapse of the President has been one
of the decisive moral events of history; and I must make an attempt to
explain it. What a place the President held in the hearts and hopes of
the world when he sailed to us in the George Washington! What a great
man came to Europe in those early days of our victory!
In November 1918 the armies of Foch and the words of Wilson had
brought us sudden escape from what was swallowing up all we cared for.
The conditions seemed favourable beyond any expectation. The victory
was so complete that fear need play no part in the settlement. The
enemy had laid down his arms in reliance on a solemn compact as to the
general character of the peace, the terms of which seemed to assure a
settlement of justice and magnanimity and a fair hope for a restoration
of the broken current of life. To make assurance certain the President
was coming himself to set the seal on his work.
When President Wilson left Washington he enjoyed a prestige and a
moral influence throughout the world unequalled in history. His bold
and measured words carried to the peoples of Europe above and beyond
the voices of their own politicians. The enemy peoples trusted him to
carry out the compact he had made with them; and the Allied peoples
acknowledged him not as a victor only but almost as a prophet. In
addition to this moral influence the realities of power were in his
hands. The American armies were at the height of their numbers,
discipline, and equipment. Europe was in complete dependence on the
food supplies of the United States; and financially she was even more
absolutely at their mercy. Europe not only already owed the United
States more than she could pay; but only a large measure of further
assistance could save her from starvation and bankruptcy. Never had a
philosopher held such weapons wherewith to bind the princes of this
world. How the crowds of the European capitals pressed about the
carriage of the President! With what curiosity, anxiety, and hope we
sought a glimpse of the features and bearing of the man of destiny who,
coming from the West, was to bring healing to the wounds of the ancient
parent of his civilisation and lay for us the foundations of the
future.
The disillusion was so complete, that some of those who had trusted
most hardly dared speak of it. Could it be true? they asked of those
who returned from Paris. Was the treaty really as bad as it seemed?
What had happened to the President? What weakness or what misfortune
had led to so extraordinary, so unlooked-for a betrayal?
Yet the causes were very ordinary and human. The President was not
a hero or a prophet; he was not even a philosopher; but a generously
intentioned man, with many of the weaknesses of other human beings, and
lacking that dominating intellectual equipment which would have been
necessary to cope with the subtle and dangerous spellbinders whom a
tremendous clash of forces and personalities had brought to the top as
triumphant masters in the swift game of give and take, face to face in
council a game of which he had no experience at all.
We had indeed quite a wrong idea of the President. We knew him to
be solitary and aloof, and believed him very strong-willed and
obstinate. We did not figure him as a man of detail, but the clearness
with which he had taken hold of certain main ideas would, we thought,
in combination with his tenacity, enable him to sweep through cobwebs.
Besides these qualities he would have the objectivity, the cultivation,
and the wide knowledge of the student. The great distinction of
language which had marked his famous Notes seemed to indicate a man of
lofty and powerful imagination. His portraits indicated a fine presence
and a commanding delivery. With all this he had attained and held with
increasing authority the first position in a country where the arts of
the politician are not neglected. All of which, without expecting the
impossible, seemed a fine combination of qualities for the matter in
hand.
The first impression of Mr Wilson at close quarters was to impair
some but not all of these illusions. His head and features were finely
cut and exactly like his photographs, and the muscles of his neck and
the carriage of his head were distinguished. But, like Odysseus, the
President looked wiser when he was seated; and his hands, though
capable and fairly strong, were wanting in sensitiveness and finesse.
The first glance at the President suggested not only that, whatever
else he might be, his temperament was not primarily that of the student
or the scholar, but that he had not much even of that culture of the
world which marks M. Clemenceau and Mr Balfour as exquisitely
cultivated gentlemen of their class and generation. But more serious
than this, he was not only insensitive to his surroundings in the
external sense, he was not sensitive to his environment at all. What
chance could such a man have against Mr Lloyd George's unerring, almost
medium-like, sensibility to everyone immediately round him? To see the
British Prime Minister watching the company, with six or seven senses
not available to ordinary men, judging character, motive, and
subconscious impulse, perceiving what each was thinking and even what
each was going to say next, and compounding with telepathic instinct
the argument or appeal best suited to the vanity, weakness, or
self-interest of his immediate auditor, was to realise that the poor
President would be playing blind man's buff in that party. Never could
a man have stepped into the parlour a more perfect and predestined
victim to the finished accomplishments of the Prime the Minister. The
Old World was tough in wickedness anyhow; the Old World's heart of
stone might blunt the sharpest blade of the bravest knight-errant. But
this blind and deaf Don Quixote was entering a cavern where the swift
and glittering blade was in the hands of the adversary.
But if the President was not the philosopher-king, what was he?
After all he was a man who had spent much of his life at a university.
He was by no means a business man or an ordinary party politician, but
a man of force, personality, and importance. What, then, was his
temperament?
The clue once found was illuminating. The President was like a
nonconformist minister, perhaps a Presbyterian. His thought and his
temperament were essentially theological not intellectual, with all the
strength and the weakness of that manner of thought, feeling, and
expression. It is a type of which there are not now in England and
Scotland such magnificent specimens as formerly; but this description,
nevertheless, will give the ordinary Englishman the distinctest
impression of the President.
With this picture of him in mind, we can return to the actual
course of events. The President's programme for the world, as set forth
in his speeches and his Notes, had displayed a spirit and a purpose so
admirable that the last desire of his sympathisers was to criticise
details-the details, they felt, were quite rightly not filled in at
present, but would be in due course. It was commonly believed at the
commencement of the Paris conference that the President had thought
out, with the aid of a large body of advisers, a comprehensive scheme
not only for the League of Nations, but for the embodiment of the
Fourteen Points in an actual treaty of peace. But in fact the President
had thought out nothing; when it came to practice his ideas were
nebulous and incomplete. He had no plan, no scheme, no constructive
ideas whatever for clothing with the flesh of life the commandments
which he had thundered from the White House. He could have preached a
sermon on any of them or have addressed a stately prayer to the
Almighty for their fulfilment; but he could not frame their concrete
application to the actual state of Europe.
He not only had no proposals in detail, but he was in many
respects, perhaps inevitably, ill-informed as to European conditions.
And not only was he ill-informed that was true of Mr Lloyd George
also but his mind was slow and unadaptable. The President's
slowness amongst the Europeans was noteworthy. He could not, all in a
minute, take in what the rest were saying, size up the situation with a
glance, frame a reply, and meet the case by a slight change of ground;
and he was liable, therefore, to defeat by the mere swiftness,
apprehension, and agility of a Lloyd George. There can seldom have been
a statesman of the first rank more incompetent than the President in
the agilities of the council chamber. A moment often arrives when
substantial victory is yours if by some slight appearance of a
concession you can save the face of the opposition or conciliate them
by a restatement of your proposal helpful to them and not injurious to
anything essential to yourself. The President was not equipped with
this simple and usual artfulness. His mind was too slow and
unresourceful to be ready with any alternatives. The President was
capable of digging his toes in and refusing to budge, as he did over
Fiume. But he had no other mode of defence, and it needed as a rule but
little manoeuvring by his opponents to prevent matters from coming to
such a head until it was too late. By pleasantness and an appearance
of conciliation, the President would be manoeuvred off his ground,
would miss the moment for digging his toes in and, before he knew where
he had been got to, it was too late. Besides, it is impossible month
after month, in intimate and ostensibly friendly converse between close
associates, to be digging the toes in all the time. Victory would only
have been possible to one who had always a sufficiently lively
apprehension of the position as a whole to reserve his fire and know
for certain the rare exact moments for decisive action. And for that
the President was far too slow-minded and bewildered.
He did not remedy these defects by seeking aid from the collective
wisdom of his lieutenants. He had gathered round him for the economic
chapters of the treaty a very able group of businessmen; but they were
inexperienced in public affairs, and knew (with one or two exceptions)
as little of Europe as he did, and they were only called in irregularly
as he might need them for a particular purpose. Thus the aloofness
which had been found effective in Washington was maintained, and the
abnormal reserve of his nature did not allow near him anyone who
aspired to moral equality or the continuous exercise of influence. His
fellow-plenipotentiaries were dummies; and even the trusted Colonel
House, with vastly more knowledge of men and of Europe than the
President, from whose sensitiveness the President's dullness had gained
so much, fell into the background as time went on. All this was
encouraged by his colleagues on the Council of Four, who, by the
break-up of the Council of Ten, completed the isolation which the
President's own temperament had initiated. Thus day after day and week
after week he allowed himself to be closeted, unsupported, unadvised,
and alone, with men much sharper than himself, in situations of supreme
difficulty, where he needed for success every description of resource,
fertility, and knowledge. He allowed himself to be drugged by their
atmosphere, to discuss on the basis of their plans and of their data,
and to be led along their paths.
These and other various causes combined to produce the following
situation. The reader must remember that the processes which are here
compressed into a few pages took place slowly, gradually, insidiously,
over a period of about five months.
As the President had thought nothing out, the Council was generally
working on the basis of a French or British draft. He had to take up,
therefore, a persistent attitude of obstruction, criticism, and
negation, if the draft was to become at all in line with his own ideas
and purpose. If he was met on some points with apparent generosity (for
there was always a safe margin of quite preposterous suggestions which
no one took seriously), it was difficult for him not to yield on
others. Compromise was inevitable, and never to compromise on the
essential, very difficult. Besides, he was soon made to appear to be
taking the German part, and laid himself open to the suggestion (to
which he was foolishly and unfortunately sensitive) of being
'pro-German'.
After a display of much principle and dignity in the early days of
the Council of Ten, he discovered that there were certain very
important points in the programme of his French, British or Italian
colleague, as the case might be, of which he was incapable of securing
the surrender by the methods of secret diplomacy. What then was he to
do in the last resort? He could let the conference drag on an endless
length by the exercise of sheer obstinacy. He could break it up and
return to America in a rage with nothing settled. Or he could attempt
an appeal to the world over the heads of the conference. These were
wretched alternatives, against each of which a great deal could be
said. They were also very risky, especially for a politician. The
President's mistaken policy over the congressional election had
weakened his personal position in his own country, and it was by no
means certain that the American public would support him in a position
of intransigency. It would mean a campaign in which the issues would be
clouded by every sort of personal and party consideration, and who
could say if right would triumph in a struggle which would certainly
not be decided on its merits. Besides, any open rupture with his
colleagues would certainly bring upon his head the blind passions of
'anti-German' resentment with which the public of all Allied countries
were still inspired. They would not listen to his arguments. They would
not be cool enough to treat the issue as one of international morality
or of the right governance of Europe. The cry would simply be that for
various sinister and selfish reasons the President wished 'to let the
Hun off'. The almost unanimous voice of the French and British Press
could be anticipated. Thus, if he threw down the gage publicly he might
be defeated. And if he were defeated, would not the final peace be far
worse than if he were to retain his prestige and endeavour to make it
as good as the limiting conditions of European politics would allow
him? But above all, if he were defeated, would he not lose the League
of Nations? And was not this, after all, by far the most important
issue for the future happiness of the world? The treaty would be
altered and softened by time. Much in it which now seemed so vital
would become trifling, and much which was impracticable would for that
very reason never happen. But the League, even in an imperfect form,
was permanent; it was the first commencement of a new principle in the
government of the world; truth and justice in international relations
could not be established in a few months they must be born in due
course by the slow gestation of the League. Clemenceau had been clever
enough to let it be seen that he would swallow the League at a price.
At the crisis of his fortunes the President was a lonely man.
Caught up in the toils of the Old World, he stood in great need of
sympathy, of moral support, of the enthusiasm of masses. But buried in
the conference, stifled in the hot and poisoned atmosphere of Paris, no
echo reached him from the outer world, and no throb of passion,
sympathy, or encouragement from his silent constituents in all
countries. He felt that the blaze of popularity which had greeted his
arrival in Europe was already dimmed; the Paris Press jeered at him
openly; his political opponents at home were taking advantage of his
absence to create an atmosphere against him; England was cold,
critical, and unresponsive. He had so formed his entourage that he did
not receive through private channels the current of faith and
enthusiasm of which the public sources seemed dammed up. He needed, but
lacked, the added strength of collective faith. The German terror still
overhung us, and even the sympathetic public was very cautious; the
enemy must not be encouraged, our friends must be supported, this was
not the time for discord or agitations, the President must be trusted
to do his best. And in this drought the flower of the President's faith
withered and dried up.
Thus it came to pass that the President countermanded the George
Washington, which, in a moment of well-founded rage, he had ordered to
be in readiness to carry him from the treacherous halls of Paris back
to the seat of his authority, where he could have felt himself again.
But as soon, alas, as he had taken the road of compromise, the defects,
already indicated, of his temperament and of his equipment, were
fatally apparent. He could take the high line; he could practise
obstinacy; he could write Notes from Sinai or Olympus; he could remain
unapproachable in the White House or even in the Council of Ten and be
safe. But if he once stepped down to the intimate equality of the Four,
the game was evidently up.
Now it was that what I have called his theological or Presbyterian
temperament became dangerous. Having decided that some concessions were
unavoidable, he might have sought by firmness and address and the use
of the financial power of the United States to secure as much as he
could of the substance, even at some sacrifice of the letter. But the
President was not capable of so clear an understanding with himself as
this implied. He was too conscientious. Although compromises were now
necessary, he remained a man of principle and the Fourteen Points a
contract absolutely binding upon him. He would do nothing that was not
honourable; he would do nothing that was not just and right; he would
do nothing that was contrary to his great profession of faith. Thus,
without any abatement of the verbal inspiration of the Fourteen Points,
they became a document for gloss and interpretation and for all the
intellectual apparatus of self-deception by which, I daresay, the
President's forefathers had persuaded themselves that the course they
thought it necessary to take was consistent with every syllable of the
Pentateuch.
The President's attitude to his colleagues had now become: I want
to meet you so far as I can; I see your difficulties and I should like
to be able to agree to what you propose; but I can do nothing that is
not just and right, and you must first of all show me that what you
want does really fall within the words of the pronouncements which are
binding on me. Then began the weaving of that web of sophistry and
Jesuitical exegesis that was finally to clothe with insincerity the
language and substance of the whole treaty. The word was issued to the
witches of all Paris:
Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
The subtlest sophisters and most hypocritical draftsmen were set to
work, and produced many ingenious exercises which might have deceived
for more than an hour a cleverer man than the President.
Thus instead of saying that German Austria is prohibited from
uniting with Germany except by leave of France (which would be
inconsistent with the principle of self-determination), the treaty,
with delicate draftsmanship, states that 'Germany acknowledges and will
respect strictly the independence of Austria, within the frontiers
which may be fixed in a treaty between that state and the principal
Allied and Associated Powers; she agrees that this independence shall
be inalienable, except with the consent of the council of the League of
Nations', which sounds, but is not, quite different. And who knows but
that the President forgot that another part of the treaty provides that
for this purpose the council of the League must be unanimous.
Instead of giving Danzig to Poland, the treaty establishes Danzig
as a 'free' city, but includes this 'free' city within the Polish
customs frontier, entrusts to Poland the control of the river and
railway system, and provides that 'the Polish government shall
undertake the conduct of the foreign relations of the free city of
Danzig as well as the diplomatic protection of citizens of that city
when abroad.'
In placing the river system of Germany under foreign control, the
treaty speaks of declaring international those 'river systems which
naturally provide more than one state with access to the sea, with or
without transhipment from one vessel to another'.
Such instances could be multiplied. The honest and intelligible
purpose of French policy, to limit the population of Germany and weaken
her economic system, is clothed, for the President's sake, in the
august language of freedom and international equality.
But perhaps the most decisive moment in the disintegration of the
President's moral position and the clouding of his mind was when at
last, to the dismay of his advisers, he allowed himself to be persuaded
that the expenditure of the Allied governments on pensions and
separation allowances could be fairly regarded as 'damage done to the
civilian population of the Allied and Associated Powers by German
aggression by land, by sea, and from the air', in a sense in which the
other expenses of the war could not be so regarded. It was a long
theological struggle in which, after the rejection of many different
arguments, the President finally capitulated before a masterpiece of
the sophist's art.
At last the work was finished; and the President's conscience was
still intact. In spite of everything, I believe that his temperament
allowed him to leave Paris a really sincere man; and it is probable
that to this day he is genuinely convinced that the treaty contains
practically nothing inconsistent with his former professions.
But the work was too complete, and to this was due the last tragic
episode of the drama. The reply of Brockdorff-Rantzau inevitably took
the line that Germany had laid down her arms on the basis of certain
assurances, and that the treaty in many particulars was not consistent
with these assurances. But this was exactly what the President could
not admit; in the sweat of solitary contemplation and with prayers to
God he had done nothing that was not just and right; for the President
to admit that the German reply had force in it was to destroy his
self-respect and to disrupt the inner equipoise of his soul; and every
instinct of his stubborn nature rose in self-protection. In the
language of medical psychology, to suggest to the President that the
treaty was an abandonment of his professions was to touch on the raw a
Freudian complex. It was a subject intolerable to discuss, and every
subconscious instinct plotted to defeat its further exploration.
Thus it was that Clemenceau brought to success what had seemed to
be, a few months before, the extraordinary and impossible proposal that
the Germans should not be heard. If only the President had not been so
conscientious, if only he had not concealed from himself what he had
been doing, even at the last moment he was in a position to have
recovered lost ground and to have achieved some very considerable
successes. But the President was set. His arms and legs had been
spliced by the surgeons to a certain posture, and they must be broken
again before they could be altered. To his horror, Mr Lloyd George,
desiring at the last moment all the moderation he dared, discovered
that he could not in five days persuade the President of error in what
it had taken five months to prove to him to be just and right. After
all, it was harder to de-bamboozle this old Presbyterian than it had
been to bamboozle him; for the former involved his belief in and
respect for himself.
Thus in the last act the President stood for stubbornness and a
refusal of conciliations.
NOTES:
1. He alone amongst the Four could speak and understand both languages, Orlando knowing only French and the Prime Minister and President only English; and it is of historical importance that Orlando and the President had no direct means of communication.