In the autumn of 1917, however, talk of peace was in the air and a definite demand for its consideration was made in a noteworthy speech by Lord Lansdowne, a Conservative leader in England. Negotiations were inaugurated between Germany and the new Bolshevik Government of Russia, and for a few weeks at the beginning of the new year the war-weary world seemed close to the possibility of a general understanding. For the first time Lloyd George outlined in specific language the main terms that would be considered by the Allies. It was President Wilson's opportunity. Careless of securing an overwhelming military victory, indeed unwilling to crush Germany, anxious to pledge the Entente to his programme in this moment of their discouragement, he formulated on January 8, 1918, his Fourteen Points, upon which he declared the final peace settlement should be based. His speech was at once an appeal to the liberals and peace-hungry of the Central Empires, a warning to the military clique in Germany then preparing to enforce degrading terms upon Russia, and a notification to the Allies that the United States could not be counted upon to fight for selfish national interests. He reiterated the principles which had actuated the United States when it entered the war: "What we demand in this war, therefore, is nothing peculiar to ourselves. It is that the world be made fit and safe to live in; and particularly that it be made safe for every peace-loving nation which, like our own, wishes to live its own life, determine its own institutions, be assured of justice and fair dealing by the other peoples of the world as against force and selfish aggression. All the peoples of the world are in effect partners in this interest, and for our own part we see very clearly that unless justice be done to others it will not be done to us."

Of the Fourteen Points into which he then divided his peace programme, the first five were general in nature. The first insisted upon open diplomacy, to begin with the approaching Peace Conference: "Open covenants of peace, openly arrived at, after which there shall be no private international understandings of any kind." Next came "absolute freedom of navigation upon the seas ... alike in peace and in war." Then "the removal, so far as possible, of all economic barriers and the establishment of an equality of trade conditions among all the nations consenting to the peace." There followed a demand for the reduction of armaments "to the lowest point consistent with domestic safety." The fifth point called for an "impartial adjustment of all colonial claims, based upon ... the interests of the populations concerned" as well as "the equitable claims of the government whose title is to be determined."

These generalizations were not so much God-given tables which must determine the international law of the future as they were subtle inducements to cease fighting; they were idealistic in tone, but intensely practical in purpose. They guaranteed to any Germans who wanted peace that there would be protection against British "navalism," against the threatened Allied economic boycott, as well as a chance of the return of the conquered colonies. The force of their seductiveness was proved, when, many months later, in October, 1918, defeated Germany grasped at them as a drowning man at a straw. At the same time Wilson offered to liberals the world over the hope of ending the old-style secret diplomacy, and to business men and labor the termination of the system of competitive armaments, with their economic and moral waste. No one would suggest that Wilson did not believe in the idealism of these first five points; no one should forget, however, that they were carefully drafted with the political situation of the moment definitely in view. They might be construed as a charter for future international relations, but they were designed primarily to serve as a diplomatic weapon for the present.

Each of the succeeding eight points was more special in character, and dealt with the territorial and political problems of the warring states. They provided for the evacuation and restoration of all conquered territories in Europe, including Russia, Belgium, France, and the Balkan States. The sovereignty of Belgium should be unlimited in future; the "wrong done to France by Prussia in 1871 in the matter of Alsace-Lorraine ... should be righted"; Italian frontiers should be readjusted "along clearly recognizable lines of nationality"; the peoples of Austria-Hungary "should be accorded the freest opportunity of autonomous development"; the relations of the Balkan States should be determined "along historically established lines of allegiance and nationality"; nationalities under Turkish rule should receive opportunity for security of life and autonomous development, and the Dardanelles should be permanently opened to all nations under international guarantees; an independent Polish state should be erected to "include the territories inhabited by indisputably Polish populations, which should be assured a free and secure access to the sea."

Generally speaking these stipulations seemed to guarantee the moderate war aims of the Entente and corresponded closely to the demands made by Lloyd George; they certainly repudiated the extreme purposes attributed to German imperialists. And yet these eight points were so vague and capable of such diverse interpretation that, like the first five general points, they might prove not unattractive to liberals in Germany and Austria. France was not definitely promised Alsace-Lorraine; any hint at the dismemberment of Austria-Hungary was carefully avoided; the readjustment of Italian frontiers might mean much or little. What were "historically established lines of allegiance and nationality" in the Balkans? And if Poland were to include only populations "indisputably Polish," was it possible to assure them "free and secure access to the sea"? The political advantage in such generalities was obvious. But there was also great danger. The time might come when both belligerent camps would accept the Fourteen Points and would still be uncertain of their meaning and application. The struggle for definite interpretation would be the real test. The President's fourteenth and last point, however, was unmistakable and expressed the ideal nearest his heart: "A general association of nations must be formed under specific covenants for the purpose of affording mutual guarantees of political independence and territorial integrity to great and small states alike."

Later events have magnified the significance of this notable speech of the 8th of January. It was a striking bid for peace, which indeed was not far away and it ultimately formed the general basis of the peace terms actually drafted. But it contained nothing new. Its definition of the conditions of peace was vague; its formulation of principles followed exactly along the lines developed by President Wilson ever since he had adopted the idea of a League of Nations founded upon international justice. His summing up of the main principle underlying his whole policy was merely the echo of his speeches for the past twelve-month: "The principle of justice to all peoples and nationalities, and their right to live on equal terms of liberty and safety with one another, whether they be strong or weak." The importance of the speech does not lie in its novelty but in its timeliness. It came at a moment when the world was anxiously listening and the undeniable idealism of its content assured to President Wilson, at least temporarily, the moral leadership of mankind. Unfortunately as the event proved, it promised more than could ever be secured by any single man. The President was to pay the price for his leadership later when he encountered the full force of the reaction.

As a step toward immediate peace the speech of the Fourteen Points failed. What might have been the result had von Hertling, Chancellor of Germany, and Czernin, in Austria, possessed full powers, it is difficult to say. But the military masters of Germany could not resist the temptation which the surrender of Russia brought before their eyes. By securing the eastern front and releasing prisoners as well as troops there, they would be able to establish a crushing superiority in the west; France would be annihilated before the American armies could count, if indeed they were ever raised. Hence the heavy terms of Brest-Litovsk and Bucharest and the preparations for the great drive of March. As Wilson said, "The tragical circumstance is that this one party in Germany is apparently willing and able to send millions of men to their death to prevent what all the world now sees to be just." Thus Germany lost her last chance to emerge from the war uncrushed.

The ruthless policy followed by Ludendorff and his associates gave the President new opportunities to appeal to the peoples of the Central Empires. He incorporated in his speeches the phrases of the German Socialists. "Self-Determination" and "No annexations and no indemnities" were phrases that had been made in Germany before Russia imported them; and when they formed the text of presidential addresses, many Germans, despite themselves, doubtless felt a twinge of sympathy. Coupled with these appeals went the President's warnings that if they persisted in tying up their fortunes with those of their rulers, they must share the penalties. If Germany insisted upon making force alone the deciding element, then he must accept the challenge and abide the issue. "There is, therefore, but one response possible from us: Force, Force to the utmost, Force without stint or limit, the righteous and triumphant Force which shall make Right the law of the world and cast every selfish dominion down in the dust." Neither the appeals nor the warnings of Wilson had any effect apparent at the moment, and yet the seed was sown. During the victorious German drives of March, April, and May, opinion to the east of the Rhine seemed to have rallied firmly behind the Teuton Government; but with the first slight setbacks of the following month the process of crumbling began. An American economist and banker, Henry C. Emery, then prisoner in Germany, tells of the pessimism prevalent as early as June and the whispers of the approaching fall of the Kaiser. In his memoirs Ludendorff lays the failure of the German armies in August to the complete breakdown of the national spirit.

The end came with extraordinary speed. Already in September, after the defection of Bulgaria and the startling success of Foch's converging movement on Sedan, Germany knew that she was defeated. The Berlin Government turned to Wilson and on the 5th of October requested an armistice. At the same time Austria-Hungary made a similar request offering to negotiate on the basis of the Fourteen Points. Wilson's position was delicate. He knew in September that the end was near and prepared for the situation in some degree by sending Colonel House abroad to be ready to discuss armistice terms with the Allies. But the sudden character of the German collapse had intoxicated public opinion to such an extent that the political idealism which he had voiced ran the risk of becoming swamped. If Germany were indeed helpless and the Allies triumphant, there was the danger that, in the flush of victory, all the promises of a just peace would be forgotten. He must provide against such a contingency. On the other hand he must secure guarantees that Germany had indeed thrown off her militaristic cloak, as Prince Max of Baden, the new Chancellor, insisted; and also that under cover of an armistice she might not effect a withdrawal of her defeated armies, only to renew the struggle under more favorable conditions on her own borders. He was caught between the danger of German fraud and Allied exuberance.

There ensued a month of negotiations, during which the military victory of the Allies was further assured, as described in the preceding pages. The German Government was first asked by Wilson if it accepted the Fourteen Points and the similar stipulations made by the President in subsequent addresses. Replying in the affirmative, Prince Max then promised to acquiesce in armistice terms that would leave the military situation unchanged, and further agreed to order a cessation of unrestricted submarine warfare and of the wanton destruction caused by the German armies in their retreat. Finally he declared in answer to Wilson's demand, that the request for an armistice and peace came from a government "which is free from any arbitrary and irresponsible influence, and is supported by the approval of an overwhelming majority of the German people." The President then formally transmitted the correspondence to the Allies, and Colonel House entered upon discussions to establish with them the understanding that the basis of the peace negotiations would be the Wilsonian programme. He was successful; and the Fourteen Points, with reservation of the second, "Freedom of the seas," were accepted by the Allied governments. The Allies, on the other hand, secured President Wilson's approval of the principle that "compensation will be made by Germany for all damage done to the civilian population of the Allies and their property by the aggression of Germany by land, by sea, and from the air." Upon this understanding the details of the armistice were left to the military leaders. The terms as fixed reflected the military situation on the fighting front and the political situation in Germany and placed Germany entirely in the power of the victors without possibility of renewing the war. The conditions laid down were so stringent that until the last moment a refusal by the German delegates seemed imminent; but on the 11th of November, just before the expiration of the time limit allowed them, they accepted the inevitable.

It is a mistake to regard the armistice as forced upon the Allies by President Wilson. Many persons abroad, as in this country, felt, it is true, that it was wrong to permit the peaceful withdrawal of the German armies, even though the full military advantages of victory were secured by the armistice conditions; the Allies ought, they argued, to impress on the Germans the magnitude of their defeat on the field of battle, and this could not be done so long as German soil had been free from warfare. General Pershing was strongly opposed to the granting of an armistice. The Allied chiefs knew, however, that although the continuation of the fighting would lead to the surrender of a great German force, every day would cost the victorious armies a heavy toll of killed and wounded, and the advantage to be gained thereby was at least questionable. This fact was emphasized even by Marshal Foch. They hesitated, certainly, to accept the Fourteen Points as the basis for peace, for they feared lest the interpretation put upon them at the Peace Conference might rob them of what they believed to be the just fruits of victory. In both France and England there was, it is true, a body of liberal opinion which would not brook open repudiation of the ideals that Wilson had sponsored during the war and to which Allied ministers had themselves paid tribute. In each country there was another group demanding a "peace of annihilation," with the payment of all war costs by the defeated, but Lloyd George and Clemenceau feared at the moment to raise this issue. Both England and France were dependent upon American assistance for the immediate future as they had been during the war. They needed American food, raw materials, and money. A break with Wilson, who for the moment was the popular hero of Europe, taken in conjunction with an economic crisis, might be the signal for domestic disturbances if not revolution.

Thus with Germany helpless and the Allies at least outwardly accepting his peace programme, Woodrow Wilson seemed to be master of the situation. And yet his power was more apparent than real. Apart from that moral influence which he exercised over the European liberals and which among some of the working classes was so extreme that candles were burnt before his picture, but which also was inevitably unstable and evanescent, Wilson's power rested upon the fact that he was President of the United States. But the nation was no longer united behind him or his policy, if indeed it had ever been so. That hatred and distrust which had marked the electoral campaign of 1916, and which, stifled for the moment by entrance into the war, had flamed out early in 1918 in the attack upon his war administration, now in the autumn threatened an explosion of popular disapprobation in some parts of the country. Men had long whispered "autocrat" but had generally been silenced during the war by the admonition not to weaken the government by factious criticism. Now they began to shout it from the house-tops. Because of his inability to grasp the importance of either tact or tactics, the President made the way of his opponents easy for them.

Shortly before the Congressional elections of November, at the moment when he felt the need of national support in order to strengthen his position with the Allies, the President was prevailed upon to issue an appeal to the electors, asking them to vote for Democratic candidates on the ground that the nation ought to have unified leadership in the coming moment of crisis, and that a Republican Congress would divide the leadership. There was nothing novel in such an appeal; in 1898, McKinley had begged for a Republican Congress on the ground that "this is no time for divided councils," the same ground as that taken by Wilson in 1918. Roosevelt in the same year (1898) had said: "Remember that whether you will or not your votes this year will be viewed by the nations of Europe from one standpoint only.... A refusal to sustain the President this year will, in their eyes, be read as a refusal to sustain the war and to sustain the efforts of the peace commission." Wilson's appeal in 1918 was merely an echo of Roosevelt's in 1898. Yet it was a mistake in tactics. It enabled the Republicans to assert that, whereas they had sunk partisan differences during the war in order to secure the victory of the nation, Wilson was now capitalizing the war and foreign problems to win a partisan advantage. The result of the elections was Republican success, assuring to that party a slight majority in the Senate and a goodly majority in the House after March 4, 1919.

The President made other tactical mistakes. Instead of taking the Senate into his confidence by entering upon numerous conferences with its leaders, he stood upon the letter of the Constitution and gave the clear impression that he would conduct the peace negotiations himself without Senatorial assistance, leaving the Senators merely their constitutional privilege of "advice and consent" when a treaty should be laid before them. He would have done better to remember a remarkable passage in one of his own lectures, delivered ten years before. Speaking of the difficulty of bringing pressure to bear upon the Senate, he had said that there is a "course which the President may follow, and which one or two Presidents of unusual political sagacity have followed, with the satisfactory results that were to have been expected. He may himself be less stiff and offish, may himself act in the true spirit of the Constitution and establish intimate relations of confidence with the Senate on his own initiative, not carrying his plans to completion and then laying them in final form before the Senate to be accepted or rejected, but keeping himself in confidential communication with the leaders of the Senate while his plans are in course, when their advice will be of service to him and his information of the greatest service to them, in order that there may be veritable counsel and a real accommodation of views, instead of a final challenge and contest." Had Wilson in 1918, and after, followed his own advice, the outcome might have been different. But nothing describes so perfectly the exact opposite of his attitude as the passage quoted above.

The President might at least have assuaged the sense of injury that rankled in the hearts of the Senators by asking for their advice in the appointment of the Peace Commission. Instead he kept his own counsel. He decided to go to Paris himself as head of the Commission, and chose for his associates men who were not qualified to win for him the support that he needed in the Senate or in the country. Robert Lansing, as Secretary of State, was a necessary appointment. Colonel House was probably the best-fitted man in America for the approaching negotiations, alike by his temperament, by the breadth of his knowledge of foreign questions, and by his intimacy with foreign statesmen. But at least two places on the Commission should have been given to eminent Republicans and to men universally known and respected. If Wilson was unwilling to select members of the Senate, he might have heeded public opinion which called definitely for William Howard Taft and Elihu Root. Both were pledged to the most important item of Wilson's programme, the League of Nations; both exercised wide influence in the country and in the Republican party. The Senate, with a Republican majority, would almost certainly ratify any treaty which they had signed. But the President, for reasons of a purely negative character, passed them over and with what looked to the public like mere carelessness, chose General Tasker Howard Bliss and Henry White, formerly Ambassador to Rome and Paris under Presidents Roosevelt and Taft. Both were men of ability and experience, but neither enjoyed the particular confidence of the American people; and what Americans chiefly wanted was the assurance of persons they knew and trusted, that the peace was right. In the existing state of public opinion, the assurance of the President was not in itself sufficient.

President Wilson's decision to go to Paris as a member of the Commission aroused still fiercer opposition, but had reasons infinitely more cogent. He knew that there would be great difficulty in translating his ideals into fact at the Peace Conference. He believed that he could count upon the support of liberal opinion in Europe, but realized that the leading politicians had not yet been won sincerely to his policy. The pledge they had given to accept the Fourteen Points might mean much or little; everything depended upon interpretation. A peace of justice and a League of Nations still hung in the balance. At this moment, with Germany clearly helpless, opinion abroad appeared to be tending, naturally enough, toward the old-style division of the spoils among the victors. More than one influential French and British newspaper began to sound the cry Vae victis. Moreover, in America broke forth a chorus of encouragement to the Allies to pay no attention to Wilsonian idealism. On the 27th of November, shortly before the Commission sailed, Roosevelt wrote: "Our Allies and our enemies and Mr. Wilson himself should all understand that Mr. Wilson has no authority whatever to speak for the American people at this time. His leadership has just been emphatically repudiated by them.... Mr. Wilson and his Fourteen Points and his four supplementary points and his five complementary points and all his utterances every which way have ceased to have any shadow of right to be accepted as expressive of the will of the American people.... Let them [the Allies] impose their common will on the nations responsible for the hideous disaster which has almost wrecked mankind." It was frank encouragement to the Allies, coming from the American who, with Wilson, was best-known abroad, to divide the spoils and to disregard all promises to introduce a new international order, and it must have brought joy to Clemenceau and Sonnino.

Wilson feared that having won the war the United States might lose the peace: not by softness towards Germany—as yet there was no danger of that—but by forgetting the ideals for which it had entered the war, by forgetting that a peace of injustice sows the seeds of the next war, and by a relapse into the old bankrupt system of the Balance of Power. He realized that the peoples of France, England, and Italy had felt the pinch of war as the American people had never done, and that it was demanding too much of human nature to expect that their attitude would be one of moderation. He knew that in the negotiations Clemenceau and Sonnino would be definitely opposed to his programme and that he could not count upon Lloyd George. He decided therefore that he must himself go to Paris to fight for his ideals. The decision was one of tremendous significance. At the moment when domestic problems of reconstruction would be most acute, an American President was going to leave the country because of the interest of America in European affairs. The United States was now so much a part of the world system that domestic issues seemed of less importance than the danger that Europe might fall back into the old international system which had proved unable to keep the peace. The President's voyage to France was the clearest manifestation yet vouchsafed of the settled position of the United States as a world power.

If the justice of his policy and the necessity of full participation in the peace as in the war be admitted, Wilson was probably right in going to Paris. No one else could have secured so much of his programme. No one else was possessed of the political power or the personal prestige which belonged to him. The history of the Conference was to show that when he absented himself in February and after he left Paris in June, his subordinates found great difficulty in meeting Allied opposition. But the decision of the President to attend the Peace Conference furnished fresh material for criticism at home. It was a new thing in our history; people did not understand the importance of the issues involved and attributed his voyage to vanity. Unquestionably it weakened Wilson in America as much as it strengthened him abroad. When on the 4th of December, the presidential ship, George Washington, sailed out of New York harbor, saluted by the wild shrieks of a thousand sirens and the showers of glittering white papers streaming from the windows of the skyscrapers, preceded by the battleship Pennsylvania, flanked by destroyers, with acrobatic airplanes and a stately dirigible overhead, external enthusiasm was apparently at its height. But Wilson left behind him glowing embers of intense opposition which, during the next six months, were to be fanned into a dangerous flame.



CHAPTER X

WAYS OF THE PEACE CONFERENCE

On Friday, December 13, 1918, the George Washington steamed slowly into Brest harbor through a long double line of gray battleships and destroyers, greeted by the thunder of presidential salutes and the blare of marine bands. Europe thrilled with emotion, which was half curiosity and half genuine enthusiasm: it was to see and applaud the man who during the past eighteen months had crystallized in speech the undefined thought of the Allied world, who represented (at least in European eyes) the strength and idealism of America, and who stood, for the moment, as the political Messiah to liberals in every country of the Old World, victors or defeated. The intensity of the curiosity as well as the sincerity of the enthusiasm was attested on the following day, when President Wilson drove through the streets of Paris, welcomed by the vociferous plaudits of the close-packed crowd. It was for him a public triumph, no greater than that accorded to King Albert of Belgium and certainly less demonstrative than the jubilations of armistice night, but nevertheless undeniably sweet to the President, who looked to popular opinion as the bulwark upon which he must rely during the difficult days ahead.

Further triumphs awaited him in his trips to England and to Italy. In London and Rome, as in Paris, he was the object of demonstrations which at times became almost delirious; more than once his admirers must have been reminded of the Biblical phrase that alludes to the honor of a prophet outside his own country. The emotion of Europe is not difficult to understand. The man in the street was ready to shout, for the war was finished and the miseries of the peace that was no peace were not yet realized, Wilson stood for Justice above everything, and the people of each country believed whole-heartedly that their particular demands were just; the President, therefore, must stand with them. To Frenchmen it was obvious that he must approve the "simple justice" of the claim that Germany pay the entire cost of the war; Italians were convinced that he would sanction their "just" demand for the annexation of Fiume. So long as Justice remained something abstract his popularity remained secure. Could he retain it when concrete issues arose? As early as the beginning of January ebullitions of approval became less frequent. Discordant voices were audible suggesting that Wilson was too prone to sacrifice the material necessities of the war-burdened nations to his idealistic notions. People asked why he failed to visit Belgium and the devastated regions of France, so as to see for himself what sufferings had been endured. And the historian may well inquire if it were because he had not gauged the depth of feeling aroused by German war practices, or because he had determined to show the Germans that he would not let his judgment be clouded by emotion. Whatever the explanation, his popularity suffered.

Without question the original strength of President Wilson's position, resting in part upon the warmth of popular feeling, which is ever uncertain, was undermined by the delays that marked the opening of the Peace Conference. Such delays may have resulted in part from the purpose of the Allied leaders, who wished to permit public enthusiasm for Wilson to cool; they may also have been caused in part by the differences that developed over the incorporation of the League of Nations in the Treaty. But a prime cause of delay is to be found in the fact that a Peace Conference of this character was a new experience and the statesmen assembled were not quite sure how to conduct it. Too little thought had been given to the problem of organization, and the plans which had been drawn up by the French and Americans were apparently forgotten. The host of diplomatic attaches and technical advisers, who crowded the Quai d'Orsay and the hotels of Paris, had only a vague notion as to their duties and waited uneasily, wondering why their chiefs did not set them to work. In truth the making of peace was to be characterized by a looseness of organization, a failure to cooerdinate, and a waste of time and energy resulting from slipshod methods. In the deliberations of the Conference there was a curious mixture of efficiency and ineffectiveness; a wealth of information upon the topics under discussion and an inability to concentrate that information. Important decisions were made and forgotten in the welter of conferential disorganization.

No one could complain that delays were caused by the kind of gay frivolity that characterized the Vienna Congress a hundred years ago. The atmosphere of the Paris Conference was more like that of a convention of traveling salesmen. The Hotel Crillon, home of the American Commission, was gray and gaunt as the State, War, and Navy Building in Washington. Banquets were rare; state balls unheard of. The President who had separate headquarters, first in the Parc Monceau and later on the Place des Etats Unis, avoided the orthodox diversions of diplomacy and labored with an intensity that was destined to result in physical collapse. The very dress of the delegates mirrored their businesslike attitude: high silk hats were seldom seen; Lloyd George appeared in the plainest of bowlers and Colonel House in his simple, black felt. Experts worked far into the early morning hours in order that principals might have statistics; principals labored even on Easter Day, and were roused from their beds at four in the morning to answer telegrams. Unique departure in the history of diplomacy: this was a working Peace Conference!

Each of the different commissions had brought to Paris a staff of attaches and experts, upon whom the principal delegates were to rely in questions of fact, and who were themselves to decide points of detail in drafting the economic and political clauses of the treaties and in determining new boundaries. The expert staff of the American Commission had been carefully selected and was generally regarded as equal to that of any other power. Compared with the foreign experts, its members lacked experience in diplomatic methods, no doubt, but they were as well or better equipped with exact information. There is an instance of an American expert on a minor commission asking that a decision be altered in view of new facts just brought to light, and offering to place those facts in detail before the commission. "I suggest," said a foreign delegate, "that we accept the amendment without investigation. Hitherto the facts presented by the Americans have been irrefutable; it would be waste of time to investigate them."

Such men as Hoover, Hurley, and Gompers were at hand to give their expert opinions on questions which they had mastered during the course of the war. Norman Davis and Thomas Lamont acted as financial advisers. Baruch and McCormick brought the wealth of experience which resulted from their administration of the War Industries and War Trade Boards. The foresight of Colonel House, furthermore, had gathered together a group of men who, organized since the summer of 1917 in what had been called "The Inquiry," had been studying the conditions that would determine new political boundaries on the basis of justice and practicability. The principal delegates could not be expected to know the details that would decide the disposition of Danzig, the fate of Fiume, the division of the Banat of Temesvar. They would need some one to tell them the amount of coal produced in the Saar Basin, the location of mines in Teschen, the ethnic character of eastern Galicia, the difference between Slovaks and Ruthenians. It was all very well to come to the Conference with demands for justice, but our commissioners must have cold facts to support those demands. The fact that exact information was available, and played a role in the decisions of the Conference, marks a step forward in the history of diplomatic relations.

Contrary to general expectation and rumor, Wilson, although he disregarded the American Commissioners, except Colonel House, made constant use of the various experts. On the George Washington he had told a group of them that he would rely absolutely upon the results of their investigations. "Tell me what's right," he had said, "and I'll fight for it. Give me a guaranteed position." During the negotiations he called in the experts for daily consultations; they sat behind him at the sessions of the Council of Ten and on the sofa beside him in the Council of Four. Their advice was not always followed to the letter; in the Shantung issue it was reluctantly discarded; but in such important matters as the Fiume problem, Wilson rested his case wholly upon the knowledge and opinions of the experts.

In defiance of the example of the Congress of Vienna, which never formally gathered in plenary session, the Paris Conference met with all delegates for the first time, on January 18, 1919. It was a picturesque scene, cast in the long Clock Room of the Quai d'Orsay, the conventional black of the majority of delegates broken by the horizon-blue uniform of Marshal Foch, the natty red-trimmed khaki of British staff officers, and the white flowing robes and golden headdress of the Arabian Emir Faisal; down the center of the room ran the traditionally diplomatic green baize tables behind which sat the delegates; attaches and press correspondents crowded into the corners or peered around the curtains of adjoining rooms; at the end, in front of the white marble fireplace, sat the dominating personalities of the Allied world. But such plenary sessions were not to witness the actual work of the Conference, nor was Wilson's demand for "open covenants openly arrived at" to be translated literally into accomplishment. To conduct the Peace Conference by sessions open to the public was obviously not feasible. There were too many delegates. Time, which was precious beyond evaluation, would be lost in the making of speeches for home consumption. More time would be lost in translation of the Babel of languages. Frankness and directness of negotiation would be impossible, for if the papers should print what the delegates said about each other there would be a national crisis every day. Finally, a congress is by nature ill-adapted for the study of intricate international problems, as was later to be illustrated in the history of the United States Senate.

The representatives of the larger European Powers had assumed that the direction of the Conference would be taken by a small executive committee, corresponding to the Supreme War Council, and to this President Wilson agreed. Such a committee would necessarily meet in secret, in order that it might not be hampered by formalities and that there might be frank speech. Only a brief communique, stating the subject of discussion and the decision reached, would be issued to the press. The committee would provide for the executive measures that must be taken to oppose the growth of economic and political anarchy in central and southeastern Europe, would distribute the problems that were to be studied by special commissions, and would formulate or approve the solutions to those problems. It would supervise the drafting of the treaties and present them to the plenary conference in practically final form. Since the bulk of the fighting had been carried by the major powers and since they would guarantee the peace, this supreme council of the Conference was composed of two representatives of the major five, France, Great Britain, the United States, Italy, and Japan, the last-named now entering the sacred coterie of "Great Powers." Among the delegates of the smaller powers there was lively dissatisfaction at the exclusion from the inner council of such states as Belgium and Serbia, which had been invaded by the enemy and had made heavy sacrifices in the war: they complained also that the number of delegates allotted them was insufficient. Already, it was whispered, the phrases that dealt with the "rights of small nations" were being forgotten, and this peace congress was to be but a repetition of those previous diplomatic assemblies where the spoils went to the strong. But Wilson, who was regarded as the defender of the rights of the small states, agreed with Clemenceau that practical necessity demanded an executive council of restricted numbers, and felt that such a body could be trusted to see that effective justice was secured. In truth the President was almost as much impressed by the extreme nationalistic ardor of the small powers, as a source of future danger, as he was by the selfishness of the large.

The Supreme Council, during the early days of the Conference, was generally known as the Council of Ten. It met in the study of Stephane Pichon, the French Foreign Minister, which opened on to the garden of the French Foreign Office, and which, with its panelled walls, covered with gorgeous Gobelins picturing Ruben's story of Marie de' Medici, its stately brocaded chairs, and old-rose and gray Aubusson carpets, was redolent of old-time diplomacy. In the center, behind a massive desk, sat the president of the Conference, Georges Clemenceau—short, squat, round-shouldered, with heavy white eyebrows and mustache serving perfectly to conceal the expression both of eyes and of mouth. Ordinarily he rested immobile, his hands folded in the eternal gray gloves, on his face an expression of bored tolerance, the expression of a man who, after half a century in the political arena of France, had little to learn either of men or of affairs, even from a Peace Conference. Skeptical in attitude, a cold listener, obviously impermeable to mere verbiage and affected by the logic of facts alone, he had a ruthless finger ready to poke into the interstices of a loosely-woven argument. Clemenceau spoke but rarely, in low even tones, with a paucity and awkwardness of gesture surprising in a Latin; he was chary of eloquence, disdaining the obvious arts of the rhetor, but he had at his command an endless string of biting epigrams, and his satire wounded with a touch so sharp that it was scarcely felt or seen except by the unfortunate recipient. Upon infrequent occasion, in the course of hot debate, some one would pierce his armor and touch him upon the unguarded quick; then the man was transformed, the eyebrows would shoot up, the eyes flash, the mustache bristle, the voice vibrate, and the invective which he poured forth scalded like molten lead. One understood at such a moment why he was called "the Tiger." But such outbursts were rare. More characteristic of his method of debate was the low-voiced ironical phrase, when his arid humor crackled like a wireless message.

Clemenceau dwarfed the other French delegates, with a single exception, not alone by the magic of his personality but by the grip which he had on the imagination of France. The people remembered that long career, beginning with the early days of the Republic and culminating with the miracle of the political salvation he brought to France in the dark days of 1917, when the morale of the nation was near the breaking-point, and which made possible the military victory of Foch. France was grateful. He had no political party in the Chamber upon which to rely, but the nation was behind him, at least for the moment. "If I should die now," he is reported to have said during the early days of the Conference, "France would give me a great funeral. If I live six months, no one knows what may happen." For Clemenceau was a realist; he did not permit himself the luxury of being deceived even by the good qualities of his own countrymen. If he feared anything it was the domination of politics by the impractical. Mankind must be taken as it is and not as we should like it to be. He was troubled by what he called the "noble simplicity" of Wilson. Statesmen must be inspired by the sacred egotism which provides for the material safety and progress of their own nation. Above all, in his mind, France was particularly vulnerable and thus must insist upon particular means of defense against the secular enemy across the Rhine.

Behind Clemenceau, in the Council, hovered his friend and Foreign Secretary, Stephane Pichon. More in evidence, however, was Andre Tardieu, who alone of the French delegates remained undwarfed by the Prime Minister. Journalist, politician, captain of Blue Devils, Franco-American Commissioner, now the youngest of the French peace commission, Tardieu, more than any one else supplied the motive energy that carried the treaty to completion. Debonair and genial, excessively practical, he was the "troubleman" of the Conference: when difficulties arose over the Saar, or Fiume, or reparations, Tardieu was called in to work with a special committee and find a compromise. Not a regular member of the Council of Ten, he was nevertheless at Clemenceau's elbow, and especially after the attempt on the latter's life, he labored day and night on the details which were too much for the strength and time of the older man.

On Clemenceau's right, and half facing him, sat the two American delegates, Wilson and Lansing. The President, to the surprise of many, was by no means the awkward college professor lost among practical politicians. His speech was slow and his manner might almost be called ponderous, but the advisers who whispered over his shoulder, during the course of the debate, attested the rapidity with which his mind operates and his skill in catching the points suggested. There was far less of the dogmatic doctrinaire in his attitude than had been looked for. Occasionally his remarks bordered upon the sententious, but he never "orated," invariably using a conversational tone; many of his points were driven home by humorous allusions or anecdotes rather than by didactic logic. Like that of the other delegates his manner was informal. During the cold days of late January he walked about the room during discussions in order to keep his feet warm. Indeed the proceedings of the Council of Ten were characterized by a noted absence of stiffness. It was evidently expected that the prestige which Wilson possessed among the masses would evaporate in this inner council; but nothing of the kind was apparent. It was not uninteresting to note that when a point was raised every one looked involuntarily to see how it would be taken by the President; and when the delegates of the smaller Powers appeared before the Council they addressed their remarks almost directly at him. Lansing spoke seldom, but then with force and conviction, and was evidently more troubled than Wilson by the compromises with expediency which the Americans were compelled to make. His attention was never distracted by the sketches which he drew without ceasing, during the course of the debates—grotesque and humorous figures, much in demand by every one present as mementos of the Conference.

Next on the right sat David Lloyd George, with thick gray hair and snapping Celtic eyes. Alert and magnetic, he was on the edge of his chair, questioning and interrupting. Frankly ignorant of the details of continental geography and politics, naive in his inquiries, he possessed the capacity for acquiring effective information at lightning speed. Unfortunately he was not over-critical and the source of his information was not invariably the highest authority; he was prone to accept the views of journalists rather than those of his own Foreign Office. Effervescent as a bottle just rid of its cork, he was also unstable, twisting and veering in his suggestions; not so much blown about by the winds of hostile criticism, to which he paid but little attention, as carried on by the shifting tides of political events at home. For his eye was always across the Channel, calculating the domestic effect of each treaty provision. Few could resist his personal magnetism in conversation and no one would deny him the title of master-politician of his age. During the first weeks of the Conference, Wilson seems to have fallen under the spell of Lloyd George to some extent, who showed himself quite as liberal as the President in many instances. But Wilson was clearly troubled by the Welshman's mercurial policy, and before he finally left for America, found relief in the solid consistency of Clemenceau. He always knew where the French Premier stood, no matter how much he might differ from him in point of view.

Beside Lloyd George, a perfect foil, sat Arthur J. Balfour, assuming the attitude habitual to him after long years in the House of Commons—head on the back of his chair, body reclining at a comfortable angle, long legs stretched in front, hands grasping the lapels of his coat, eyes at frequent intervals closed. Rising, he overtopped every one present, white and bent though he was, in physical stature as he did also in pure intellectual power. Graceful in tone and expression his outlook was the philosophical, possibly over-tolerant for the exigencies of the situation, although upon occasion his judgment proved a valuable counterweight to the hasty enthusiasm of Lloyd George. But Balfour, like Lansing, was sometimes treated with scant consideration by his chief and by no means exercised the influence which his experience and capacity would lead one to expect.

On the right of the British delegates sat the two Japanese, silent, observant, their features immobile as the Sphinx. It was a bold man who would attempt to guess the thoughts masked by their impassive faces. They waited for the strategic moment when they were to present their special claims; until then they attended all meetings, scarcely speaking a word, unwilling to commit themselves. Upon one occasion, in a minor commission, the Japanese delegate held the deciding vote, the other four delegations being tied; when asked by the chairman how he voted, whether with the French and Americans or with the British and Italians, the Japanese responded simply, "Yes." Next the Japanese, but facing Clemenceau and about twelve feet from him, were the Italians: Sonnino with his close-cropped white bullet head and heavy drooping mustache, his great Roman nose coming down to meet an equally strong out-jutting chin, his jaw set like a steel latch. The hawklike appearance of the man was softened in debate by the urbanity of his manner and the modulations of his voice. Orlando was less distinctive in appearance and character. Eloquent and warm-hearted, he was troubled by the consciousness that failure to secure the full extent of Italian claims spelled the downfall of his ministry in Rome. It is of some historical importance that Sonnino, who spoke perfect English with just a trace of Etonian inflection, was the more obstinate in his demands; Orlando, who showed himself inclined to compromise, spoke no English and therefore could come into intellectual contact with Wilson and Lloyd George only through the medium of an interpreter.

Proceedings were necessarily in both French and English, because none of the big men except Clemenceau and Sonnino used the two languages with comfort. The interpreter, Mantoux, who sat behind Clemenceau, was no mere translator. A few notes scribbled on a pad were sufficient for him to render the sense of a speech with keen accuracy and frequently with a fire and a pungency that surpassed the original. He spoke always in the first person as though the points made in debate were his own, and the carrying of each particular point the ideal nearest his heart. Behind the principals, the "Olympians," as they came to be called, were the experts and attaches, with long rolls of maps and complex tables of statistics, ready to answer questions of detailed facts. In truth there was more reference to sources of exact information by the chief delegates than would have been expected by the student of former diplomatic practices.

In the center of the room, facing the Olympians, stood or sat the particular claimant or expert witness of the seance. Now it might be Marshal Foch, with wrinkled, weary, war-worn visage, and thin rumpled hair, in shabby uniform, telling of Germany's failure to fulfill the armistice conditions; one would meet him later in the corridor outside—like Grant, he was apt to have the stump of a black cigar in the corner of his mouth—usually shaking his head ominously over the failure of the politicians to treat Germany with the requisite severity. Or the claimant before the Ten might be the grave, self-contained Venizelos, once outlaw and revolutionary, now, after many turns of fortune's wheel, master of Greece and perhaps the greatest statesman of them all. Then again would appear the boyish Foreign Minister of the Czecho-Slovak Republic, Edward Benes, winning friends on all sides by his frank sincerity and ready smile; or, perfect contrast, the blackbearded Bratiano of Rumania, claiming the enforcement of the secret treaty that was to double the area of his state. Later, Paderewski came from Warsaw, his art sacrificed on the altar of patriotism, leonine in appearance, but surprisingly untemperamental in diplomatic negotiation.

To each of these and to many others who presented problems for immediate settlement the Council listened, for it had not merely to draw up treaties and provide for the future peace of the world, but also to meet crises of the moment. The starving populations of central and southeastern Europe must be fed; tiny wars that had sprung up between smaller nationalities must be attended to and armistice commissions dispatched; the rehabilitation of railroads and river transportation demanded attention; coal mines must be operated and labor difficulties adjusted. This economic renaissance had to be accomplished in face of nationalistic quarrels and the social unrest that threatened to spread the poison of communistic revolution as far west as the Rhine and the Adriatic.

From the beginning it was clear that the actual drafting of the treaty clauses would have to be undertaken by special commissions. The work could never be completed except by a subdivision of labor and the assignment of particular problems to especially competent groups. As the Council of Ten faced the situation, they decided that the number of the commissions must be increased. By the beginning of February the work was largely subdivided. There was a commission headed by President Wilson working on the League of Nations, while others studied such problems as responsibility for the war, reparations, international labor legislation, international control of ports, waterways, and railways, financial and economic problems, military, naval, and aerial questions. When the Council of Ten found themselves puzzled by the conflicting territorial claims of different Allied nations, they decided to create also special territorial commissions to study boundaries and to report their recommendations back to the Supreme Council. It was President Wilson, chafing at the early delays of the Conference, who eagerly adopted a suggestion of Colonel House to the effect that time might be saved if the experts of the different states attacked boundary problems and thus relieved the strain upon the time and nerves of the Olympians, who could not be expected to know or understand the details of each question. The suggestion was approved by the chiefs of the Allied governments. There were five such territorial commissions, which were in turn subdivided, while a single central territorial commission was appointed to cooerdinate the reports.

The more important commissions, such as that upon the League of Nations, were composed of plenipotentiaries and included generally representatives from the smaller states. The reparations, financial, and labor commissions were made up of business men and financiers, the American representatives including such figures as Lamont, Norman Davis, Baruch, and McCormick. The territorial commissions were composed of the representatives of the four principal Powers; most of the European delegates, who were in some cases also plenipotentiaries, were chosen from the staffs of the Foreign Offices, and included such men as Sir Eyre Crowe, Jules Cambon, Tardieu, and Salvago Raggi. The American delegates were generally members of the Inquiry, men who had been working on these very problems for more than a year. The special commissions worked with care and assiduity, and their decisions rested generally on facts established after long discussion. To this extent, at least, the Paris Conference was characterized by a new spirit in diplomacy.

Upon the reports of these commissions were based the draft articles of the treaties, which were then referred back to the Supreme Council. By the time the reports were finished, that body had divided into two smaller bodies: the Council of Foreign Ministers, and the Council of Premiers, composed of Clemenceau, Lloyd George, Wilson, and Orlando. The latter body, which came to be known as the Council of Four, or, colloquially, the "Big Four," naturally assumed complete direction. It was unfortunate certainly that a congress which had started with the cry of "open covenants" should thus find itself practically resolved into a committee of four. Disappointed liberals have assumed that the inner council was formed with the object of separating President Wilson from contact with popular ideas and bringing him to acceptance of the old-style peace desired by Clemenceau. In reality the Council of Four was simply a revival of the informal committee which had sat during the autumn of 1918, when Colonel House, Lloyd George, and Clemenceau had met by themselves to formulate the policy to be adopted when Germany presented her demand for an armistice. When Wilson left Paris in February, Colonel House, who became chiefly responsible for the American side of negotiations, found the Council of Ten unwieldy. It was attended by as many as thirty or forty persons, some of whom seemed inclined to spread colored accounts of what was going on, and the very size of the meeting tended toward the making of speeches and the slowing-down of progress. Furthermore, at that time Clemenceau, confined to his house by the wound inflicted by a would-be assassin, was unable to attend the sessions of the Council of Ten. It was natural, therefore, that the three statesmen who had worked so effectively the preceding autumn should now renew their private conferences. When Wilson returned to Paris in March, and learned from Colonel House how much more rapidly the small committee was able to dispose of vexatious questions, he readily agreed to it. Nor is there any valid evidence extant to show that his influence was seriously impaired by the change, although the sessions of the Council of Four took on a greater appearance of secrecy than had been desired by Colonel House.

The Council of Four acted as a board of review and direction rather than of dictators. When the reports of the expert commissions were unanimous they were generally accepted with little or no alteration. When a divided report was sent up, the Four were compelled to reach a compromise, since every delay threatened to give new opportunity to the forces of social disorder in Germany and southeastern Europe. The Council met ordinarily in the house used by President Wilson, on the Place des Etats-Unis. Some of the conferences were held in a small room downstairs without the presence of secretaries or advisers; frequently, however, the experts were called in to meet with the chiefs in the large front room upstairs, and would often monopolize the discussion, the Four playing the part of listeners merely. Formality was dispensed with. During a debate upon the southern boundary of Austria, President Wilson might have been seen on all fours, kneeling on the floor and tracing out the suggested frontier on a huge map, while other peace commissioners and experts surrounded him, also on their hands and knees. Hours of labor were long. There was, certainly, much discussion that hinged upon selfish nationalist interests, but also much that was inspired by a sincere desire to secure the solution that would permanently restore the tranquillity of Europe.

The presence of President Wilson did much to maintain the idealism that jostled national self-seeking in the final drafting of the treaties. Though he lacked the political brilliance of Lloyd George and had not the suppressed but irresistible vehemence that characterized Clemenceau, his very simplicity of argument availed much. He was not destined to carry through the full programme of idealism as set out in the Fourteen Points, at least not as interpreted by most liberals. He could not secure the peace of reconciliation which he had planned, but even with his popularity in France, Belgium, and Italy lost, and his prestige dimmed, he retained such a strong position in the Council of Four that he was able to block some of the more extreme propositions advanced by imperialist elements, and, more positively, to secure what he had most at heart, the League of Nations. Whether he yielded more than he gained is a question which demands more detailed consideration.



CHAPTER XI

BALANCE OF POWER OR LEAGUE OF NATIONS?

Whatever mistakes President Wilson made at Paris, he did not greatly underestimate the difficulties of his task when he set forth from the United States. The liberal utterances of the Allied chiefs during the war had never succeeded in winning his sincere confidence; more than once he had even intimated that he did not consider their governments completely representative of public opinion. He anticipated a struggle with Clemenceau and Lloyd George over the amount of indemnity which was to be demanded from Germany, as well as over the territory of which she was to be deprived. Their formal approval of the Fourteen Points had been a cause of intense satisfaction to him, but he realized definitely that they would make every effort to interpret them in terms of purely national self-interest. This he regarded as the greatest difficulty to be met at Paris. The second difficulty lay in the extreme demands that were being made by the smaller nationalities, now liberated from Teuton dominion or overlordship. Poland, Rumania, Serbia, Greece, were all asking for territory which could only be assigned to them on the ancient principle of the division of spoils among the victors. The spirit of nationalism which had played a role of so much importance in the antecedents of the war, as well as in the downfall of the Central Empires, now threatened to ruin the peace. As we have seen, it was partly because of this second danger that Wilson agreed to the exclusion of the smaller states from the Supreme Council of the Allies.

Upon the details of the treaties, whether of an economic or a territorial character, the President did not at first lay great stress. He was interested chiefly in the spirit that lay behind the treaties. The peace, he insisted, must be one of justice and, if possible, one of reconciliation. More concretely, the great point of importance was the establishment of a League of Nations; for the President believed that only through the building up of a new international system, based upon the concert of all democratic states, could permanent justice and amity be secured. Only a new system could suffice to prevent the injustice that great states work upon small, and to stamp out the germs of future war. It would be the single specific factor that would make this treaty different from and better than treaties of the past. The ultimate origin of the great war was less to be sought in the aspirations and malevolence of Germany, he believed, than in the disorganized international system of Europe. Unless that were radically reformed, unless a regime of diplomatic cooeperation were substituted for the Balance of Power, neither justice nor peace could last. The old system had failed too often.

Wilson does not seem to have formulated definitely before he reached Paris the kind of League which he desired to see created. He was opposed to such intricate machinery as that proposed by the League to Enforce Peace, and favored an extremely simple organization which might evolve naturally to meet conditions of the future. The chief organ of a League, he felt, should be an executive council, possibly composed of the ambassadors to some small neutral power. If trouble threatened in any quarter, the council was to interfere at once and propose a settlement. If this proved unsuccessful, a commercial boycott might be instituted against the offending state: it was to be outlawed, and, as Wilson said, "outlaws are not popular now." He regarded it as important that the German colonies should not be divided among the Allies, but should be given to the League, to be administered possibly through some smaller power; for an institution, he felt, is always stabilized by the possession of property.

Such were, broadly speaking, the ideas which seemed uppermost in the President's mind when he landed in France, and which he was determined should form the basis of the peace. He anticipated opposition, and he was in a measure prepared to fight for his ideals. But he failed adequately to appreciate the confusion which had fallen upon Europe, after four years and more of war, and which made the need of a speedy settlement so imperative. If he had gauged more accurately the difficulties of his task he would have been more insistent upon the drafting of a quick preliminary peace, embodying merely general articles, and leaving all the details of the settlement to be worked out by experts at their leisure. He might thus have utilized his popularity and influence when it was at its height, and have avoided the loss of prestige which inevitably followed upon the discussion of specific issues, when he was compelled to take a stand opposed to the national aspirations of the various states. Such a general preliminary treaty would have gone far towards restoring a basis for the resumption of normal political and economic activity; it would have permitted Wilson to return to the United States as the unquestioned leader of the world; it would have blunted the edge of senatorial opposition; and finally it might have enabled him to avoid the controversies with Allied leaders which compelled him to surrender much of his original programme in a series of compromises.

It is only fair to Wilson to remember that his original plan, in November, was to secure such a preliminary treaty, which was to embody merely the general lines of a territorial settlement and the disarmament of the enemy. The delays which postponed the treaty were not entirely his fault. Arriving in France on the 13th of December, he expected that the Conference would convene on the seventeenth, the date originally set. But days passed and neither the French nor the British took steps toward the opening of negotiations. They had not even appointed their delegates. Lloyd George sent messages of welcome from across the Channel, but explained that domestic affairs detained him in England. Conscious of the struggle that was likely to arise between the "practical" aspirations of Europe and the "idealism" of America, the Allied leaders evidently were in no hurry to give to the exponent of the ideal the advantage of the popular support that he enjoyed during the early days following his arrival upon European shores. Hence it was not until the second week of January that the delegations began to assemble at Paris. In the interval Wilson had become involved in various detailed problems and he had lost the opportunity, if indeed it ever offered, to demand immediate agreement on preliminary terms of peace.

Notwithstanding the delays, the President secured an early triumph in the matter which he had closest at heart, namely, a League of Nations and its incorporation in the Treaty. Clemenceau had taken issue publicly with Wilson. When the President, in the course of his English speeches, affirmed that this was the first necessity of a world which had seen the system of alliances fail too often, the French Premier replied in the Chamber of Deputies, on the 29th of December, that for his part he held to the old principle of alliances which had saved France in the past and must save her in the future, and that his sense of the practical would not be affected by the "noble candeur" of President Wilson. The polite sneer that underlay the latter phrase aroused the wrath of the more radical deputies, but the Chamber gave Clemenceau an overwhelming vote of confidence as he thus threw down the gage. In the meantime Lloyd George had shown himself apparently indifferent to the League and much more interested in what were beginning to be called the "practical issues."

With the opening of the Conference, however, it soon became apparent that Wilson had secured the support of the British delegates. It is possible that a trade had been tacitly consummated. Certain it is that the "freedom of the seas," which the British delegates were determined should not enter into the issues of the Peace Conference and which had threatened to make the chief difficulty between British and Americans, was never openly discussed. Had Wilson decided to drop or postpone this most indefinite of his Fourteen Points, on the understanding that the British would give their support to the League? At all events, the League of Nations was given an important place on the programme of deliberations, and at the second of the plenary sessions of the Conference, held on January 25, 1919, the principle of a League was approved without a dissentient voice; it was also decided that the League should be made an integral part of the Treaty. Wilson, in addition to acquiring British support had won that of the Italians, to whom he had promised his aid in securing the Brenner frontier in the Tyrol. Clemenceau, according to an American delegate, "had climbed on the band-wagon."

The President's victory was emphasized when he also won the Europeans and the representatives of the British overseas Dominions to acceptance of the principle of "mandatories," according to which the German colonies were not to be distributed as spoils amongst the victors, but to become the property of the League and to be administered by the mandatory states, not for their own benefit but for that of the colonies. The victory was not complete, since Wilson's first intention had been that the mandatory states should not be the great powers, but such states as Holland or one of the Scandinavian nations. He was compelled to admit the right of the British and French to take over the colonies as mandatories. Even so, the struggle over the issue was intense, Premier Hughes of Australia leading the demand that the German colonies should be given outright to the Allies and the British self-governing Dominions. Again the support of Lloyd George brought success to the American policy.

In order to assure his victory in the foundation of a League of Nations, it was necessary that before returning home Wilson should see some definite scheme elaborated. Until the 14th of February he labored with the special committee appointed to draft a specific plan, which included much of the best political talent of the world: Lord Robert Cecil, General Smuts, Venizelos, Leon Bourgeois. In order to avoid the criticism that consideration of a League was delaying the preparation of peace terms, the commission met in the evenings so as not to interrupt the regular meetings of the Council of Ten. It was a tour de force, this elaboration of a charter for the new international order, in less than three weeks. At times the task seemed hopeless as one deadlock after another developed. Wilson, who presided over the commission, lacked the skill and courage displayed by Clemenceau in his conduct of the plenary sessions, and proved unable to prevent fruitless discussion; possibly he feared lest he be regarded as autocratic in pushing his pet plan. At all events precious moments were dissipated in long speeches, and general principles threatened to be lost in a maze of details. With but two days left before the plenary session of the Conference and the date set for Wilson's sailing, the commission had approved only six of the twenty-seven articles of the Covenant. Fortune intervened. The presence of Wilson was demanded at the Council of Ten and his place as chairman was taken by Lord Robert Cecil. The latter showed himself effective. Ably seconded by Colonel House, he passed over all details and pushed the final stages of the report through at top speed; on the 14th of February the Covenant of the League was completed. It was sanctioned by the plenary session of the Conference that afternoon, and in the evening Wilson left for America with the document in his pocket. Doubtless it seemed to him that the major portion of his task had been accomplished.

The mechanism of the League thus proposed is said to have been largely evolved by Smuts and Cecil, but it coincided roughly with the ideas that Wilson had already conceived. Much of the language of the Covenant is Wilson's; its form was mainly determined by the British and American legal experts, C. J. B. Hurst and D. H. Miller. It provided for an executive council representing nine powers, and a deliberative assembly of all the members of the League. The Council must meet annually and take under advisement any matters threatening to disturb international peace. Its recommendations must be unanimous. The Assembly was entirely without executive power. The members of the League were to agree not to make war without first submitting the matter under dispute to arbitration or to the consideration of the Council. Failure to abide by this agreement would constitute an act of war against the League, which upon recommendation of the Council, might boycott the offending state economically or exercise military force against it. The Covenant declared it "to be the friendly right of each Member of the League to bring to the attention of the Assembly or of the Council any circumstance whatever affecting international relations which threatens to disturb international peace or the good understanding between nations upon which peace depends." The members of the League, furthermore, undertook "to respect and preserve as against external aggression the territorial integrity and existing independence of all members of the League. In case of any such aggression the Council shall advise upon the means by which this obligation shall be fulfilled" (Article X). These two provisions embodied the particular contributions of Wilson to the Covenant, who believed that the capacity of the League to preserve justice and peace depended chiefly upon them. The Covenant also provided in some measure for military and naval disarmament by giving to the Council the right to recommend the size of the force to be maintained by each member of the League, and it attacked secret diplomacy by abrogating previous obligations inconsistent with the Covenant and by providing that every future treaty must be registered and published.

If the President expected to be hailed at home as conquering hero, he was destined to bitter disappointment. He must now pay the price for those tactical mistakes which had aroused opinion against him in the previous autumn. The elements which he had antagonized by his war-policies, by his demand for a Democratic Congress, by his failure to cooeperate with the Senate in the formulation of American policy and in the appointment of the Peace Commission, and which had opposed his departure in person to Paris—all those elements now had their chance. Having won a difficult victory over reactionary forces in Europe, Wilson was now compelled to begin the struggle over again at home. And whereas at Paris he had displayed some skill in negotiation and an attitude of conciliation even when firm in his principles, upon his return he adopted a tone which showed that he had failed to gauge the temper of the people. He probably had behind him the majority of the independent thinkers, even many who disliked him personally but who appreciated the importance and the value of the task he was trying to carry through. The mass of the people, however, understood little of what was going on at Paris. The situation abroad was complex and it had not been clarified adequately by the press. Opinion needed to be educated. It wanted to know why a League was necessary and whether its elaboration was postponing peace and the return of the doughboys. Why must the League be incorporated in the Treaty? And did the League put the United States at the mercy of European politicians and would it involve our country in a series of European wars in which we had no interest?

What followed must be counted as little less than a tragedy. The man of academic antecedents with masterly powers of exposition, who had voiced popular thought during the years of the war so admirably, now failed completely as an educator of opinion. The President might have shown that the League Covenant, instead of postponing peace, was really essential to a settlement, since it was to facilitate solutions of various territorial problems which might otherwise hold the Conference in debate for months. He could have demonstrated with a dramatic vigor which the facts made possible, the anarchical condition of Europe and the need for some sort of international system of cooeperation if a new cataclysm was to be avoided, and he might have pictured the inevitable repercussive effect of such a cataclysm upon America. He might have shown that in order to give effect to the terms of the Treaty, it was necessary that the League Covenant should be included within it. He could have emphasized the fact that the Covenant took from Congress no constitutional powers, that the Council of the League, on which the United States was represented, must be unanimous before taking action, and then could only make recommendations. But the President failed to explain the situation in terms comprehensible to the average man. However adequate his addresses seemed to those who understood the situation abroad, they left the American public cold. His final speech in the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City was especially unfortunate, for his statement that he would bring back the Treaty and the League so intertwined that no one could separate them sounded like a threat. At the moment when he needed the most enthusiastic support to curb the opposition of the Senate, he alienated thousands and lost the chance to convince tens of thousands.

These developments did not pass unnoticed in Europe. Clemenceau and Lloyd George had yielded to Wilson during the first weeks of the Conference because they could not afford to separate their fortunes from the United States, upon whom they depended for economic support, and because an open break with Wilson would weaken their own position with liberals in France and England. But now it became apparent to them that Wilson's position at home was so unstable that they might be justified in adopting a stronger tone. Each of them could point to the tangible evidence of victorious elections and votes of confidence. President Wilson could not. The party in the Senate which, after the 4th of March, would hold the majority, expressly repudiated Wilson's policy. When the President returned to Paris, on the 14th of March, he found a different atmosphere. The League was no longer the central topic of discussion. Concrete questions were uppermost. How much should Germany pay? What territory should be taken from her? How was the Kaiser to be punished? Wilson had been given the satisfaction of securing approval for the principle of the League. Now he must permit the Conference to satisfy the practical aspirations of France, England, and Italy.

It is a tribute to the personality of Wilson that by his presence at this critical juncture, when the attitude of the Allies differed but slightly, if at all, from that of the powers at the Congress of Vienna, he was able to bring back something of the spirit of justice which had been so frequently and loudly declaimed before the armistice, and to repress at least in some degree the excessive claims which demanded satisfaction in the treaties. The plans which, during his absence, had been evolved for the separation of the Covenant from the Treaty and for its postponement, and which had received the hearty support of several French and British diplomats, were quickly dropped. Wilson was able to announce without contradiction, that the Covenant would be an integral part of the Treaty, as decided on the 25th of January. Far more difficult was the situation that resulted from French and British plans for indemnities from Germany, and from the French territorial claims on the Rhine. In each of these matters Wilson could secure nothing better than a compromise.

From the day when peace dawned upon Europe, the question that had touched Allied peoples most closely was, How much will Germany pay? It was not so much the shout of the brutal victor greedy for loot, as the involuntary cry of nations which had seen their homes and factories pulverized, their ships sunk, the flower of their youth killed and maimed, and which now faced years of crushing taxation. They had carried the load of war gallantly and they would enter the struggle for recuperation courageously. But they would not endure that the enemy, which had forced these miseries upon them, should not make good the material damage that had been done. What was the meaning of the word justice, if the innocent victors were to emerge from the war with keener sufferings and more gloomy future than the guilty defeated? Another question stirred the mind of every Frenchman. For generations the eastern frontier of France had lain open to the invasion of the Teuton hordes. The memory of Prussian brutality in 1814 had been kept alive in every school; the horrors of 1870 had been told and retold by participants and eye-witnesses; and the world had seen the German crimes of 1914. From all France the cry went up, How long? It would be the most criminal stupidity if advantage were not taken of the momentary helplessness of the inevitable enemy in order to make that vulnerable frontier secure. This was not the end. Some day the struggle would be renewed. Already, within two months of the armistice, the French General Staff were considering mobilization plans for the next war. France must be made safe while she had the chance.

These feelings had such a hold on the people that the statesmen of Europe would have been over-thrown on the day they forgot them. Popular sentiment was reenforced by practical considerations less justifiable. Crushing indemnities would not merely ease the load of Allied taxation and furnish capital for rapid commercial development; they would also remove Germany as an economic competitor. French control of all territory west of the Rhine would not only assure France against the danger of another German invasion, but would also provide her capitalists with a preponderating economic advantage in regions by no means French in character. Such selfish interests the Americans strove to set aside, although they never forgot their desire to secure as complete justice for the Allies as seemed compatible with a stable and tranquil settlement.

In the matter of indemnities, or reparations as they came to be called, the experts of the various powers soon established the fact that Germany would be unable to pay the total bill of reparation, even at the most conservative reckoning. There was a long discussion as to whether or not the costs of war, aside from material damage done, that had been incurred by the Allies, should be included in the amount that Germany was to pay. It was finally determined, in accordance with the arguments of the American financial delegates who were warmly supported by President Wilson, that such war costs should be excluded. On the other hand it was agreed that pensions might properly be made part of Germany's reparation bill. The two items of damages and pensions were calculated by the American experts as amounting to a total figure of not less than $30,000,000,000 present capital sum, which Germany ought to pay.

The next step was to determine how much Germany could be made to pay. By drafting too severe terms German trade might be destroyed completely and Germany left without the economic capacity to make the money that was to pay the bill. It was obvious to careful students that the total amount which she could turn over to the Allies could not be much more than the excess of her exports over imports; and that even if payments were extended over twenty or thirty years their value for purposes of reparation would probably not much exceed twenty-five billion dollars. Lloyd George in his election pledges had promised that the complete reparations account would be settled by the enemy; neither he nor Clemenceau dared to confess that the sum which could be exacted from Germany would fall far below their early promises. The British experts, Sumner and Cunliffe, continued to encourage Lloyd George in his belief that Germany could afford to pay something in the neighborhood of a hundred billion dollars, and the French Finance Minister, Klotz, was equally optimistic. At first, accordingly, Allied demands on Germany seemed likely to be fantastic.

The Americans, on the other hand, were infinitely more conservative in their estimates of what Germany could pay. Even after certain Allied experts, including Montagu and Loucheur, affirmed the necessity of scaling down the suggested sum of reparations, the difference between the American proposals and those of the Allies was serious.[13] Political considerations, however, interposed, and preventing the settling of a definite total sum which Germany must pay. Neither Lloyd George nor Clemenceau dared to go to their constituents with the truth, namely that Germany could not possibly pay the enormous indemnities which the politicians had led the people to expect. (Lloyd George, for example, had stated the sum that Germany must pay at about $120,000,000,000.) Both the chiefs of state asserted that they were almost certain to be turned out of office as a result, with consequent confusion in the Peace Conference, and a prolongation of the crisis. The only escape seemed to be in a postponement of the problem by not naming any definite sum which Germany must pay, but requiring her to acknowledge full liability. The disadvantages of this method were apparent to the President and his financial advisers, for it was clear that the economic stability of the world could not be restored until the world knew how much Germany was going to pay.

[Footnote 13: At first the French and British refused to name any specific sum that might be collected from Germany, requesting the Americans to submit estimates. The latter named $5,000,000,000 as representing a sum that might be collected prior to May 1, 1921, and thereafter a capital sum as high as $25,000,000,000, always provided that the other clauses in the treaty did not too greatly drain Germany's resources. After some weeks of discussion the French experts stated that if the figures could be revised up to $40,000,000,000 they would recommend them to their chiefs. The British refused to accept a figure below $47,000,000,000.]

Equally difficult was the problem of the French frontier. The return of Alsace-Lorraine to France was unanimously approved. The French claimed in addition, the districts of the Saar, with their valuable coal-fields, a portion of which had been left to France after the first abdication of Napoleon but annexed to Prussia after his defeat at Waterloo; and they contended that if the German territories west of the Rhine were not to be annexed to France, they must at least be separated from Germany, which had secured a threatening military position mainly through their possession. American experts had felt inclined to grant a part of the Saar region to France as compensation for the wanton destruction of French mines at Lens and Valenciennes by the Germans; but both Wilson and Lloyd George were opposed to absolute annexation of the district which the French demanded, including, as it did, more than six hundred thousand Germans and no French. Wilson was definitely hostile to any attempt to separate from the Fatherland such purely German territory as that on the left bank of the Rhine. The Allies, as well as himself, had given assurances that they did not aim at the dismemberment of Germany, and it was on the basis of such assurances that the Germans had asked for an armistice. Wilson admitted that from the point of view of military strategy the argument of Foch was unanswerable, under the old conditions; but he insisted that the League of Nations would obviate the necessity of the strategic protection asked for.

The struggle over these issues nearly broke the back of the Conference. If Clemenceau had yielded in January when the League was demanded by Wilson, it was with the mental reservation that when the "practical" issues came up, the victory should be his. The French press were not slow to give support to their Government, and within a short time the President, so recently a popular idol, found himself anathematized as a pro-German and the sole obstacle to a speedy and satisfactory peace. The more noisy section of the British press followed suit. Liberals were silenced and American idealism was cursed as meddlesome myopia. For some days the deadlock appeared interminable and likely to become fatal. In a contest of obstinacy even Wilson could be matched by Clemenceau. The increasing bitterness of French attacks upon the Americans began to tell upon Wilson; for the first time his physical strength seemed likely to collapse under the strain. Matters were brought to a head by a bold stroke, on the 7th of April, when Wilson ordered the George Washington to sail for Brest. The inference was plain: the President would leave the Conference unless the Allies abated their claims.

The week of strain was followed by one of adjustment. Fearing an open break with America, Allied leaders showed themselves anxious to find a compromise, and Wilson himself was willing to meet them part way, since he realized that without France and England his new international system could never operate. Colonel House found opportunity for his tested skill and common sense as a mediator, and he was assisted by Tardieu, who proved himself to be fertile in suggestions for a practical middle course. As in the case of all compromises, the solutions satisfied no one completely. But clearly some sort of treaty had to be framed, if the world were to resume normal life and if the spread of social revolution were to be checked. At least the compromises had the virtue of winning unanimity, without which Europe could not be saved.

The indemnity problem was settled, at least for the moment, by postponing a final definite statement of the total amount that Germany must pay. It was decided that the sum of five billion dollars (twenty billion gold marks), in cash or kind, should be demanded from Germany as an initial payment, to be made before May 1, 1921. Certain abatements were to be permitted the Germans, since this sum was to include the expenses of the army of occupation, which were reckoned as in the neighborhood of a billion dollars; and supplies of food and raw materials, which Germany might need to purchase, could be paid for out of that sum. In the second place, Germany was required to deliver interest-bearing bonds to a further amount of ten billions; and, if the initial payment of cash fell short of five billions by reason of permitted deductions, the amount of bonds was to be so increased as to bring the total payments in cash, kind, or bonds, up to fifteen billions by May 1, 1921. If a Reparations Commission, the decisions of which Germany must agree to accept, should be satisfied that more yet could be paid, a third issue of bonds, amounting to a further ten billions might be exacted. Even this total of twenty-five billions was not to be regarded as final, if Germany's capacity to pay more were determined by the Reparations Commission. Germany was required to acknowledge full liability, and the total sum which she might theoretically have to pay was reckoned by a British expert as between thirty-two and forty-four billions. The Reparations Commission, however, was given the power to recommend abatements as well as increased payments; upon the wisdom of its members the practical application of the treaty would obviously depend.[14]

[Footnote 14: The proposal of a permanent commission for handling the whole matter of reparations was made first by an American financial adviser, John Foster Dulles. The idea was accepted by Lloyd George and Clemenceau as an efficacious method of enabling them to postpone the decision of a definite sum to be paid by Germany until the political situation in France and Great Britain should be more favorable.]

In truth the reparations clauses of the treaty, which compelled Germany to hand over what was practically a blank check to the Allies, represented no victory for Wilson. But he had at least prevented the imposition of the crushing indemnities that had been proposed, and which must have been followed by political and economic consequences hardly short of disastrous. As for the eastern frontier of France, it was agreed that the right of property in the coal mines of the Saar district should be given outright to France, as partial but immediate compensation for the damage done at Lens and elsewhere. But the district itself was to be placed under the League of Nations and a plebiscite at the end of fifteen years was to determine its final destiny. The territory on the left bank of the Rhine was left to Germany, but it was to be demilitarized entirely, a condition which also applied to a zone fifty kilometers broad to the east of the Rhine. The bridgeheads on the Rhine, as well as the German districts to the west of the river, were to be occupied for periods extending from five to fifteen years, in order to ensure the execution of the treaty by the Germans. The French press contended that Clemenceau had made over-great concessions, protesting that the League would be utterly unable to protect France against sudden attack, especially since the Covenant had not provided for a general military force. In return for these concessions by Clemenceau, Wilson gave an extraordinary quid pro quo. He who had declaimed vigorously against all special alliances now agreed that until the League was capable of offering to France the protection she asked, there should be a separate treaty between France, Great Britain, and the United States, according to which the two latter powers should promise to come to the defense of France in case of sudden and unprovoked attack by Germany. The treaty did not, according to Wilson, constitute a definite alliance but merely an "undertaking," but it laid him open to the charge of serious inconsistency.