NOVEMBER 12, 1921
We shall have to leave November 12, 1921, the opening day of the
Conference on the Limitation of Armament, to History for a final
appraisement. Arthur Balfour told Mr. Hughes after he had had time to
gather himself together from the shock of the American program that in
his judgment a new anniversary had been added to the Reconstruction
Movement. “If the 11th of November,” said Mr. Balfour, “in the minds of
the allied and associated powers, in the minds perhaps not less of all
the neutrals—if that is a date imprinted on grateful hearts, I think
November 12 will also prove to be an anniversary welcomed and thought of
in a grateful spirit by those who in the future shall look back upon the
arduous struggle now being made by the civilized nations of the world,
not merely to restore pre-war conditions, but to see that war conditions
shall never again exist.”
Whatever place it may turn out that November 12 shall hold on the
calendar of great national days, this thing is sure; it will always be
remembered for the shock it gave Old School Diplomacy. That institution
really received a heavier bombardment than War, the real objective of
the Conference. The shelling reached its very vitals, while it only
touched the surface of War’s armor.
Diplomacy has always had her vested interests. They have seemed
permanent, impregnable. What made November 12, 1921, portentous was its
invasion of these vested interests. Take that first and most important
one—Secrecy. When Secretary Hughes followed the opening speech of
welcome and of idealism made by President Harding, not with another
speech of more welcome and more idealism, as diplomacy prescribes for
such occasions, but with the boldest and most detailed program of what
the United States had in mind for the meeting, Diplomacy’s most sacred
interest was for the moment overthrown. To be sure, what Secretary
Hughes did was made possible by John Hay’s long struggle to educate his
own countrymen to the idea of open diplomacy; by what President Wilson
tried to do at the Paris conference. Mr. Wilson won the people of the
world to his principle, but his colleagues contrived to block him in the
second stage of the Paris game. Mr. Hughes, building on that experience,
did not wait for consultation with his colleagues. On his own, in a
fashion so unexpected that it was almost brutal, he threw not only the
program of the United States on the table, but that which the United
States expected of two—two only, please notice—of the eight nations she
had invited in, Great Britain and Japan.
His proposals came one after another exactly like shells from a Big
Bertha!—“It is now proposed that for a period of ten years there should
be no further construction of capital ships.” One after another the
program of destruction followed.
The United States:—to scrap all capital ships now under construction
along with fifteen old battleships, in all a tonnage of 845,740
tons;
Great Britain:—to stop her four new Hoods and scrap nineteen capital
ships, a tonnage of 583,375 tons;
Japan:—abandon her program of ships not laid down, and scrap enough
of existing ones, new and old, to make a tonnage of 448,928 tons.
I once saw a huge bull felled by a sledge hammer in the hands of a
powerful Czecho-Slovac farm hand. When Mr. Hughes began hurling one
after another his revolutionary propositions the scene kept flashing
before my eyes, the heavy thud of the blow on the beast’s head falling
on my ears. I felt almost as if I were being hit myself, and I confess
to no little feeling of regret that Mr. Hughes should be putting his
proposals so bluntly. “It is proposed that Great Britain shall,” etc.
“It is proposed that Japan shall,” etc. Would it have been less
effective as a proposal and would it not have been really more
acceptable as a form if he had said—“We shall propose to Great Britain
to consider so and so.” But, after all, when you are firing Big Berthas
it is not the amenities that you consider.
Mr. Balfour and Sir Auckland Geddes, sitting where I could look them
full in the face, had just the faintest expression of “seeing things.” I
would not have been surprised if they had raised their hands in that
instinctive gesture one makes when he does “see things” that are not
there. The Japanese took it without a flicker of an eyelash—neither the
delegates at the table nor the rows of attachés and secretaries moved,
glanced at one another, changed expression. So far as their faces were
concerned Mr. Hughes might have been continuing the Harding
welcome—instead of calling publicly on them for a sacrifice
unprecedented and undreamed of.
The program was so big—its presentation was so impressive (Mr. Hughes
looked seven feet tall that day and his voice was the voice of the man
who years ago arraigned the Insurance Companies) that one regretted that
there were omissions so obvious as to force attention. There was a
singular one in the otherwise admirable historical introduction Mr.
Hughes made to his program. He reviewed there the efforts of the first
and second Hague Conferences to bring about disarmament—explained the
failure—and jumped from 1907 to 1921 as if in 1919, at the Paris Peace
Conference, man’s most valiant effort to bring about disarmament had not
been made. He failed to notice the fact that to this effort scores of
peoples had subscribed, including _all_ of the nations represented at
the council table; that these nations had been working for two years in
the League of Nations, under circumstances of indescribable world
confusion and disorganization, to gather the information and prepare a
practical plan not only to limit the world’s arms but to regulate for
good and all private traffic in armaments. Before Mr. Hughes sat M.
Viviani of France who had been serving on the Commission charged with
this business. Before him, too, was man after man fresh from the
discussions of the second annual Assembly of the League. Disarmament and
many other matters pertaining to world peace had been before them. They
came confident that they had done something of value at Geneva however
small it might be compared with the immense work still to be done.
Arthur Balfour of England, Viviani of France, Wellington Koo of China,
Senator Schanzer of Italy, Sastri of India, Van Karnebeck of
Holland—were among those that heard Mr. Hughes jump their honest
efforts, beginning in 1919, to bring the armaments of the world to a
police basis. It must have bewildered them a little—but they are
gentlemen who are forced by their profession to take hints quickly—they
understood that as far as the American Conference on Limitation of
Armament was concerned, the League of Nations was not to exist. From
that day, if you wanted information on the League from any one of them
you had to catch him in private, and he usually made sure nobody was
listening before he enlightened you as to his opinions, which invariably
were “not for publication.”
One could not but wonder if Mr. Balfour had this omission in mind when
at a later session he said in speaking of Mr. Hughes’ review of past
disarmament efforts that “some fragments” had been laid before the
Conference. What Mr. Hughes really did in ignoring the work for
disarmament carried on at Paris and Geneva in the last three years was
to call attention to it.
After all, was it not petty to be irritated when something so bold and
real had been initiated? Was it not yielding to the desire to “rub in”
the omission as bad—or worse—than the omission? As a matter of fact, the
thing going on at the moment was so staggering that one had no time for
more than a momentary irritation. Mr. Hughes swept his house on November
12—swept it off its feet. If secret diplomacy was given by him such a
blow as it never had received before, diplomatic etiquette was torn to
pieces by the Senate and the House of the United States, each of which
had a section of the gallery to itself. Possibly their action was due to
a little jealousy. They are accustomed to holding the center of the
deliberative stage in Washington, and they always have, possibly always
will resent a little the coming of an outside deliberative body which
for the time being the public regards as more interesting than
themselves. They made it plain from the start that they were not awed.
The House of Representatives particularly was a joy to see if it did
make a shocking exhibition of itself. It looked as if it were at a ball
game and conducted itself in the same way. It hung over the gallery,
lolled in its seats, and when the President struck his great note, the
words which ought to become a slogan of the country—“Less of Armament
and None of War”—it rose to its feet and cheered as if there had been a
home run.
Having once broke out in unrestrained cheers, they gave again and again
what William Allen White called “the yelp of democracy.” Even after the
program was over and the remaining formalities customary on such
occasions were about at an end, they took things into their own hands
and finished their attack on diplomatic etiquette by calling for Briand
as they might have called for Babe Ruth. “It isn’t done, you know,” I
heard one young Britisher say after it was over. But it had been done,
and the chances are that there will be more of it in the future.
If this day does work out to be portentous in history, as it possibly
may, the time will come when every country will hang great historical
pictures of the scene in its public galleries. We should have one,
whatever its fate. And I hope the artist that does it will not fail to
give full value to the Congress that cracked the proprieties. Let him
take his picture from the further left side of the auditorium. In this
way he can bring in the House of Representatives. He can afford to leave
out the diplomatic gallery, as he would have to do from this position.
The diplomatic gallery counted less than any other group in the
gathering.
Secrecy and etiquette were not the only vested interests attacked on
November 12, 1921. There was a third that received a blow—lighter to be
sure, but a blow all the same and a significant one. The exclusive
vested right of man to the field of diplomacy was challenged. Not by
giving a woman a seat at the table, but by introducing her on the floor,
in an official capacity, a new official capacity, rather problematical
as yet as to its outcome—a capacity which if it ranks lower than that of
delegate is still counted higher than that of expert, since it brings
the privilege of the floor.
Behind the American delegation facing the hall and inside the sacred
space devoted to the principals of the Congress, sat a group of some
twenty-one persons, the representatives of a new experiment in
diplomacy—a slice of the public brought in to act as a link between the
American delegates and the public. Four of these delegates were
women—well-chosen women. They are the diplomatic pioneers of the United
States.
Who were those people, why were they there? I heard more than one
puzzled foreign attaché ask. When you explained that this was an
advisory body, openly recognized by the government, they continued, “But
why are women included?” They understood the women in the diplomatic
gallery, the women in the boxes. It was a great ceremony. It was quite
within established diplomatic procedure that the ladies of the official
world should smile upon such an occasion.
They understood the few women scattered among the scores of men in the
press galleries—but women on the floor as part of the Conference? What
did that mean? It meant, dear sirs, simply this, that man’s exclusive,
vested interest in diplomacy had been invaded—its masculinity attacked
like its secrecy and propriety. What would come of the invasion no one
could tell.
It is doubtful if ever a program has received heartier acclaim from this
country than that of Mr. Hughes. It stirred by its boldness, its
breadth. “Scrap!” Whoever had said that word seriously in all the long
discussion of disarmament. Ten years!—the longest the most sanguine had
suggested was five. It caught the imagination—had the ring of
possibility in it. It might be putting the cart before the horse, as I
had been complaining, but it made it practically certain that the horse
would be acquired even if you had to pay a good round sum for him, so
desirable had the cart been made.
And then the way the nations addressed picked it up! Three days later
their formal acceptances were made. For England, Arthur Balfour accepted
in principle, declaring as he did so:
“It is easy to estimate in dollars or in pounds, shillings and pence the
saving to the taxpayer of each of the nations concerned which the
adoption of this scheme will give. It is easy to show that the relief is
great. It is easy to show that indirectly it will, as I hope and
believe, greatly stimulate industry, national and international, and do
much to diminish the difficulties under which every civilized government
is at this time laboring. All that can be weighed, measured, counted;
all that is a matter of figures. But there is something in this scheme
which is above and beyond numerical calculation. There is something
which goes to the root, which is concerned with the highest
international morality.
“This scheme, after all—what does it do? It makes idealism a practical
proposition. It takes hold of the dream which reformers, poets,
publicists, even potentates, as we heard the other day, have from time
to time put before mankind as the goal to which human endeavor should
aspire.”
“Japan,” declared Admiral Baron Kato, “deeply appreciates the sincerity
of purpose evident in the plan of the American Government for the
limitation of armaments. She is satisfied that the proposed plan will
materially relieve the nations of wasteful expenditures and cannot fail
to make for the peace of the world.
“She cannot remain unmoved by the high aims which have actuated the
American project. Gladly accepting, therefore, the proposal in
principle, Japan is ready to proceed with determination to a sweeping
reduction in her naval armament.”
Italy, through Senator Schanzer, greeted the proposal as “The first
effective step toward giving the world a release of such nature as to
enable it to start the work of its economic reconstruction.”
France—her Premier, Briand, spoke for her—slid over the naval program.
France, he said, had already entered on the right way—the way Mr. Hughes
had indicated; her real interest was elsewhere. “I rather turn,” said M.
Briand, “to another side of the problem to which Mr. Balfour has
alluded, and I thank him for this. Is it only a question here of
economy? Is it only a question of estimates and budgets? If it were so,
if that were the only purpose you have in view, it will be really
unworthy of the great nation that has called us here.
“So the main question, the crucial question, which is to be discussed
here, is to know if the peoples of the world will be at last able to
come to an understanding in order to avoid the atrocities of war. And
then, gentlemen, when it comes on the agenda, as it will inevitably
come, to the question of land armament, a question particularly delicate
for France, as you are all aware, we have no intention to eschew this.
We shall answer your appeal, fully conscious that this is a question of
grave and serious nature for us.”
What more was there to do? England, Japan and the United States had
accepted “in principle” a program for the limitation of navies, much
more drastic than the majority of people had dreamed possible. To be
sure the details were still to be worked out, but that seemed easy. Had
not the Conference finished its work? There were people that said so.
No. Mr. Hughes had simply awakened the country to what was possible if
the reasons for armament could be removed.
So far as we, the United States, were concerned, these reasons were
fourfold:
(1) Our Pacific possessions. Until we felt reasonably sure that they
were safe from possible attack by Japan, we must keep our navy and
strengthen our fortifications.
(2) The England-Japan pact. We suspected it. It might be a threat.
So long as it existed could we wisely limit our navy?
(3) Our Open Door policy in China. We meant to stand by that. It had
been invaded by Japan in the Great War; could we reaffirm it now and
secure assurances we trusted that there would be no further
encroachments? If not, could we limit our armament?
(4) Our policy of the integrity of nations—China and Russia. We had
announced a “moral trusteeship” over both. No more carving up. Let
them work it out for themselves. How were we going to back up that
policy?
That is, we had possessions and policies for which we were responsible.
Could we protect them without armament? That depended, in our judgment,
upon England and Japan. Would they be willing to make agreements and
concessions which would convince us that they were willing to respect
our possessions and accept our policies in the Pacific?
If so, what assurances could we give them in return that would convince
them that we meant to respect their possessions and policies? How could
we prove to them that they need not fear us?
It was within the first month of the Conference that the answers to
these questions were worked out “in principle” again.