THE PEACE CONFERENCE
Captain Maude left Amiens and became Major Maude, D.S.O., A.P.M.
Cologne. I missed him greatly, and it depressed me very much being
left in that old town, but the doctors flatly refused to let me move,
so I just had to grin and bear it.
I then got more ill and took to my bed. My recollections from that
time to the middle of January are very hazy. People were very kind to
me, and used to come and sit with me for hours, especially two Rifle
Brigade boys--Stevens and Riviere--two of the best. Stevens had just
come back from Brussels, where there had been great times, music and
dancing. Apparently the great tune of that period was "Katie"; anyway
Stevens could not get it out of his head. He never knew how near he
was to sending me completely mad, by singing gently to himself as the
winter afternoons drew in:--
"K-K-K-Katie, beautiful Katie,
You're the only g-g-girl that I adore,
When the ke-moon shines on the Ke-cowshed;
I'll be waiting at the Kitchie Kitchen door."
Long afterwards, during the Peace Conference, whenever I heard that
tune in the "Majestic," my mind went back to the misery and
semi-darkness in that dirty room in Amiens.
On New Year's Eve, Angus McDonnell came all the way from G.H.Q. and (p. 099)
had me lifted out to dinner, so I must have been better then. General
Sir John Cowans also came all the way from G.H.Q. to see how I was.
Kindness is a wonderful thing.
[Illustration: XLII. _General Sir J. S. Cowans, G.C.B., etc._]
The Allied Press disbanded, and I gave a dinner to the boys at the
"Hôtel de la Paix." It was all arranged by my chauffeur, Gordon
Howlett, and my batman, Green, and it was well done. Great were the
songs and dances, and great was the amount of liquid put away. I was
lifted downstairs and laid out beside the table, and the lads
presented me with a magnificent silver ash-tray.
Towards the end of January, I was allowed out and about again, and I
went up to G.H.Q. to paint the Q.M.G., who put me up in his château. I
painted him, and also did some work down at "Bumpherie," including a
drawing of Lieutenant Brooks, who took the most wonderful official
photographs during the war, often at great personal risk. I remember a
story that went round in 1917, in which there was not a word of truth,
but it was amusing. A terrible-looking Tommy stopped Brooks in the
Street of the Three Pebbles and said: "Say, guv'ner, when are you
going to give me me photo?" "What photo? Who are you?" said Brooks.
"Blimy," said the Tommy, "you don't know me, and me the bloke as was
killed going over the top for you!"
I now got a reminder that I was due in Paris to paint the Peace
Conference. The whole thing had gone from my mind. I afterwards found
the letter, which I apparently had received and read, dated December,
telling me to go to Paris, but I was so sick I did not realise what it
was about. I realised now right enough, so I packed my bag and breezed
away to Paris, and found that great family gathering, the Peace (p. 100)
Conference, and the life of the "Astoria" and the "Majestic" commenced
for me.
The great family really was composed of a number of little families.
Mine consisted of Lord Riddell, George Mair, Lieut.-Colonel Stroud
Jackson, D.S.O., George Adam, Sidney Dark and Gordon Knox, and great
were the meetings at Foucquet's before lunch.
For the most part, my life consisted now of painting portraits at the
"Astoria," or attending the Conference at the "Quai d'Orsay." During
these I did little drawings of the delegates. For a seat I was usually
perched up on a window-sill. It was very amusing to sit there and
listen to Clemenceau--"Le Tigre"--putting the fear of death into the
delegates of the smaller nations if they talked too long. Apparently,
the smaller the nation he represented, the more the delegate felt it
incumbent on himself to talk, but after a while, Clemenceau, with the
grey gloves whirling about, would shout him down.
President Wilson occasionally rose and spoke of love and forgiveness.
Lloyd George just went on working, his secretaries constantly rushing
up to him, whispering and departing, only to return for more whispers.
Mr. Balfour, whose personality made all the other delegates look
common, would quietly sleep. The Marquis Siongi was the only other man
who could hold his own at all with Mr. Balfour in dignity of
appearance.
As a whole there was just a little mass of black frock-coated
figures--"frocks" as we called them--sitting and moving about under
the vast decoration of "Le Salon de l'Horloge." Some of the little
people seemed excited, but for the most part they looked profoundly (p. 101)
bored, yet they were changing the face of the map, slices were being
cut off one country and dumped on to another. It was all very
wonderful, but I admit that all these little "frocks" seemed to me
very small personalities, in comparison with the fighting men I had
come in contact with during the war.
[Illustration: XLIII. _Field-Marshal Sir Henry H. Wilson, Bart.,
K.C.B., etc._]
They appeared to think so much--too much--of their own personal
importance, searching all the time for popularity, each little one for
himself--strange little things. President Wilson made a great hit in
the Press with his smile. He was pleased at that, and after this he
never failed to let you see all his back teeth. Lloyd George grew hair
down his back, I presume from Mr. Asquith's lead. Paderewski--well, he
was always a made-up job. In short, from my window-seat it was easy to
see how self-important the majority of all these little black "frocks"
thought themselves. It was all like an _opéra bouffe_, after the
people I had seen, known and painted during the war; and these, as the
days went by, seemed to be gradually becoming more and more forgotten.
It seemed impossible, but it was true. The fighting man, alive, and
those who fought and died--all the people who made the Peace
Conference possible, were being forgotten, the "frocks" reigned
supreme. One was almost forced to think that the "frocks" won the war.
"I did this," "I did that," they all screamed, but the silent soldier
man never said a word, yet he must have thought a lot.
I remember when the Peace Terms were handed to the Germans at the
Trianon Palace, I tried my hardest to get a card to enable me to see
it, but failed. This may not seem strange, but it really was,
considering that about half the people who were present were there out
of curiosity alone. They were just friends of the "frocks." This (p. 102)
ceremony took place at 2.30 p.m. on that particular day. I happened to
leave my room and go into the hall of the "Astoria" for something
about 3 p.m. There I met Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson. I said: "How
did you get back so soon, sir?" He said: "Back from where?" I said:
"From the handing over of the Peace Terms." "Oh," he said, "I haven't
been there. They wouldn't give me a pass, the little 'frocks' wouldn't
give me one." "I've been trying for days, sir," I said. "They expect
me to paint them, but they won't let me see them." "Look here, little
man," he said. "I've been thinking as I was walking back here, and
I'll give you a little piece of advice: 'Laugh at those who cry, and
cry at those who laugh.' Just go back to your little room and think
that over and you will feel better."
When I painted Sir Henry, he gave me his views on the brains and
merits of many of the delegates, views full of wit and brilliant
criticism, but when I had finished painting him I came under his
kindly lash. He called me "a nasty little wasp," and he kept a "black
book" for any of his lady friends who said the sketch was like him. In
it their names were inscribed, and they were never to be spoken to
again. With all his fun, Sir Henry was a deep thinker, and towered
over the majority of the "frocks" by his personality, big outlook and
clear vision.
General Botha was big, large and great in body and brain--elephantine!
Everything on an immense scale, even to his sense of humour. He had no
sign of pose, like most of the "frocks." He never seemed to try to
impress anyone. One could notice no change in his method or mode of
conversation according to whom he was speaking. The great mind just (p. 103)
went on and uttered what it thought, regardless of whom it uttered it
to. In Mrs. Botha he had the ideal wife. Together they were like two
school-children. "Louis" and "Mother," how well they knew each other,
and how they loved their family and home! They were always talking of
"home" and longing to get back to it. Alas! Louis only got back there
for a very short time, and now "home" will never be the same for
"Mother."
[Illustration: XLIV. _The Rt. Hon. Louis Botha, P.C., LL.D._]
What arguments they used to have--fierce arguments which always ended
the same way! "Louis" would make some remark which would absolutely
pulverise "Mother's" side of the question, and as she was stammering
to reply, he would say very gently: "It's all right, Mother, it's all
right, you've won." And she would flash out with: "Don't you dare to
say that to me, Louis! You always say that when you get the best of
the argument."
She used to complain to me how terrible the General's love for bridge
was, and how she used to be kept up so late. He would laugh and say:
"But, Mother, you didn't get up till nine this morning. I was walking
in the Bois at half-past six."
I remember one afternoon they came to my room and Mrs. Botha said:
"Well, Louis, what kind of a morning had you?" He replied: "Not very
good, Mother, not very good. You see, Mother, Clemenceau got very
irritated with President Wilson, and Lloyd George the same with
Orlando. No, it wasn't a very pleasant morning. Nearly everyone was
irritable." Then "Mother" said: "I think it disgusting, Louis, that
these men, settling the peace of the world, should allow their own
little petty irritabilities to interfere with the great work." And (p. 104)
Botha replied: "Ah! Mother, you must make allowances. Men are only
human." "I don't make allowances," jerked in "Mother," "I think it's
disgusting." "Don't say that, Mother," he replied. "I remember one
time, long ago, when we made our little peace, you used to get very
irritable at times, and I had to make a lot of allowances for you. You
must try and make the same for these poor people now." "Mother" never
even replied to this, but jumped from her chair and left the room, and
the big man's face broadened into a smile. Yes, Botha was big--a giant
among men.
Admiral Lord Wester Wemyss came along. He has a good head for a "Sea
Dog." He brought the sea into the heart of Paris with him. A man of
great charm, with a wonderful smile, which I did not paint.
I wrote and asked President Wilson to sit, and got a reply saying that
as his time was fully occupied with the Peace Conference work, he
regretted that he was unable to give any sittings.
I also wrote to Mr. Lansing and Colonel House, asking them. The
Colonel rang up the same afternoon and said, "Certainly," would I name
my day and hour? Which I did; and along he came, a charming man, very
calm, very sure of himself, yet modest. During the sitting he asked me
if I had painted the President. I replied: "No." He then asked me if I
was going to do so, and I replied: "No," that the President had
refused to sit. He said: "Refused?" I said: "Yes; he hasn't got the
time." "What damned rot!" said the Colonel, "he's got a damned sight
more time than I have. What day would you like him to come to sit?" I
named a day, and the Colonel said: "Right! I'll see that he's here,"
and he did. Mr. Lansing was also very good about giving sittings, (p. 105)
and we had a good time, as he loves paintings, and knows all the Art
Galleries in Europe. He also paints himself in his spare time, and all
through the Conference at the "Quai d'Orsay" he drew caricatures of
the different delegates. President Wilson told me he had a large
collection of these.
[Illustration: XLV. _The Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour. O.M._]
When Lord Reading sat he had the "'flu," and did not talk, so I got
nothing out of him except that he has a very fine head.
The Emir Feisul sat. He had a nice, calm, thoughtful face. Of course,
his make-up in garments made one think of Ruth, or, rather, Boaz. He
could not let me work for one minute without coming round to see what
I was doing. This made the sittings a bit jerky. I was going to paint
another portrait of him for his home, but we never hit off times when
we were both free.
I asked Mr. Balfour to sit, and he asked me to lunch to arrange it.
The subject was never mentioned, but the lunch in the Rue Nito was
excellent, and it was a joy to listen to Mr. Balfour. One could also
look down into President Wilson's garden, as Mr. Balfour's flat was on
the second floor, and one could see over the armed defences and view
the American Army on guard outside, with steel helmets and bayonets
flashing in the sunlight.
Mr. Balfour did sit in the end. I remember he came to my room about
12.15 p.m. He was sound asleep by 12.35 p.m., but woke up sharp at 1
p.m., and left for lunch. What a head! It put all other heads out of
the running. So refined, so calm, so strong, a fitting head for such a
great personality.
Dr. E. J. Dillon very kindly asked me to dinner to meet Venezelos, and
he arranged for him to sit, which he did at the "Mercèdes Hotel." He (p. 106)
had a beautiful head, with far-seeing blue eyes, which had a
distinctly Jewish look. It was difficult to paint him, as he had no
idea of sitting at all. It was a pity, as he had a wonderful head to
paint. His flesh was fresh and rosy like a young boy's.
Da Costa, of Portugal, came along: a bright little man, full of health
and energy; and after him that quiet, thoughtful friendly person, Sir
Robert Borden, of Canada; even then he looked rather tired and
overworked.
General Sykes sat. What a strange head! A sort of mixture between Hall
Caine and Shakespeare.
The day arrived when President Wilson was to sit. He was to come at 2
p.m., so I went back to the "Astoria" about 1.30. When I got to the
door I found a large strange man ordering all the English motors to go
one hundred yards down the Rue Vernet. No British car was allowed to
stop closer. When I entered the "Astoria," one of the Security
Officers told me that an American detective had been inquiring the
direct route the President was to take to my room. I went on into
another little room I had, where I kept my paints and things; and
there I found two large men sitting in the only two chairs. They took
no notice of me, and were quite silent, so I proceeded to get ready.
Taking off my belt and tunic, and putting on my painting coat, I
started to squeeze out colours, when suddenly in marched an enormous
man. He looked all round the room and said in a deep voice: "Is Sir
William Orpen here?" "Yes, I'm here," I said. He walked up to me and,
towering over me, looked down and said in grave doubt: "Are _you_ Sir
William Orpen?" "Yep," I replied, in my best American accent. "Well,"
he said, "be pleased to dress yourself and proceed to the door and
prepare to receive the President of the United States of America." (p. 107)
That finished me--I had been worked up to desperate action. So I
looked up as fully as I could in his face, and uttered one short,
thoroughly English word, but one which has a lot to it. Immediately
the two large men and the enormous one left the room in utter silence.
[Illustration: XLVI. _President Woodrow Wilson._]
Shortly afterwards the President arrived, smiling as usual; but he was
a good sort, and he laughed hard when I told him the story of the
detectives. He was very genial and sat well, but even then he was very
nervous and twitchy. He told endless stories, mostly harmless, and
some witty. I only remember one. A king was informed that all the men
in his State were obeying their wives; so he ordered them all before
him on a certain day and spoke to them, saying he had heard the fact
about their obeying their wives, and he wished to ascertain if it was
so. So he commanded, "All men who obey their wives go to my left!"
They all went to his left except one miserable little man, who
remained where he was, alone. The king turned, and said to him: "Are
you the only man in my State who does not obey his wife?" "No, sire,"
said the little man, "I obey my wife, sire." "Then why do you not go
to my left as I commanded?" "Because, sire," said the little man, "my
wife told me always to avoid a crush." It's a mild story, but it's the
only one I remember. The only other thing I recollect about President
Wilson is that he had a great admiration for Lord Robert Cecil.
General Sackville-West came, and we had some peaceful sittings. A very
calm, very sad man, but he was kindness itself. Many are the acts for
which I have to thank him.
Lord Beatty arrived in Paris. A lunch was given in his honour at the
Embassy, after which he came back with me to the "Astoria," and sat. (p. 108)
A forceful character! I may be wrong, but I imagine he did not love
the "frocks."
George Adam gave a great dinner one night out at some little country
place near Paris. Mr. Massey, of New Zealand, and Admiral Heaton Ellis
were the two chief people present. Massey was a most pleasant big man,
with kind, blue eyes--a simple, honest, straightforward person, large
in body and big enough in brain to laugh at himself. He made me feel I
was back painting the honest people in the war. He had none of the
affectations of the "frocks."
I painted the Marquis Siongi in his flat in the Rue Bassano. There one
worked in the calm of the East. People entered the room, people left,
but I never heard a sound. The Marquis sat--never for one second did
his expression give an inkling of what his brain was thinking about.
He never moved; his eyelids never fluttered, and beside me all the
time I worked, curled up on a sofa, was his daughter--surely one of
the most beautiful women I have ever seen, soft and gentle, with her
lovely little white feet. I loved it all. When I left that flat I
could not help feeling I was going downstairs to a lower and more
common world, a world where passions and desires were thrust upon
one's eyes and ears, leaving no room for imagination or wonder. I
never pass down the Rue Bassano now that I do not think of the Marquis
and those lovely little white feet, the gentle manners and the calm of
the East which pervaded those apartments.
General Smuts sat, a strong personality with great love for his own
country, and a fearless blue eye. I would not like to be up against
him, yet in certain ways he was a dreamer and poet in thought. He
loved the people and hated the "frocks." He and I had a great night
once at the servants' dance down in the ballroom of the "Majestic." (p. 109)
I found him down there during the evening, and he said: "You've got
sense, Orpen. There is life down here, but upstairs it's 'just
death.'"
[Illustration: XLVII. _The Marquis Siongi._]
Mary was, of course, the "Belle of the Ball." No description of the
Peace Conference could be complete without including Mary. One great
man said that the most joyous sight he saw in Paris was Mary. Mary
doled us out tea and cigarettes in the hall of the "Majestic"--doled
them out with a smile of pure health. Mary came from Manchester, yet
she made the Parisian girls look pale, pallid and washed out. Her rosy
cheeks had a smile for everyone, men and women; one and all loved
Mary. She really was the greatest personal success of the Peace
Conference. How the people of Manchester must have missed her, and how
lucky they are to have her back again!
Another delegate with no affectation was Mr. Barnes, a restful,
thoughtful soul. He brought Mrs. Barnes in one afternoon, a charming,
quiet lady. They should be painted together as an ideal English
couple.
Another good Englishman, Lord Derby, our Ambassador, sat to me. Some
day will be known all the good he has done in France. Loved by all,
this joyous, bluff, big-hearted Englishman has done great things in
keeping friendship and goodwill between the two nations through many
anxious moments. One felt better after being at the Embassy and
hearing his great laugh. He was not a bit like a "frock"; whether he
loved them or not, I don't know. He was far too clever to let me know,
but he was too kind-hearted to hurt anybody or anything, and he
certainly loved the fighting man--French, English or American.
Mr. Hughes made a big mark at the Conference. He was as deaf as a (p. 110)
post, but he had a cutting wit. Many are the good stories told about
him, but they are not mine. Clemenceau and he used to have great
jokes. Often I have seen them rocking with laughter together,
Clemenceau's grey-gloved hands on Hughes' shoulders, leaning over him
and shouting into his enormous deaf cars. He came to sit one day with
_The Times_. He said: "Good morning." I asked him to sit in a chair.
He sat, read _The Times_ for about an hour and a half, murmured
something that I did not catch, got up and left. The next day he rang
up and asked if I wished for another sitting. I said: "No, sir," so
that was my only personal meeting with Hughes; but I gather he was
extremely cute and cunning, which is quite possible from the general
make-up of his head.
That warrior, General Carton de Wiart, V.C., came to sit: a man who
loved war. What a happy nature! He told me he never suffered any pain
from all his wounds except once--mental pain--when he temporarily lost
the sight of his other eye, and he thought he might be blind for life.
A joyous man, so quiet, so calm, so utterly unaffected. What a lesson
to the "frocks"!
Another man of great personal charm was Paul Hymans, of Belgium. He
was greatly liked and respected by the British delegates.
[Illustration: XLVIII. _A Polish Messenger._]