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 attachés 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 coördinate, 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 États
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 attachés
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 rôle
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; attachés 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 communiqué, 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 André 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, naïve 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 attachés, 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 séance. 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 coördinate
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 États-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.