The Economic Consequences of the Peace | Page 8

of the true point at issue, or where
too persistent criticism by France's allies put them in a position which
they felt as invidious, of always appearing to take the enemy's part and
to argue his case. Where, therefore, British and American interests were
not seriously involved their criticism grew slack, and some provisions
were thus passed which the French themselves did not take very
seriously, and for which the eleventh-hour decision to allow no
discussion with the Germans removed the opportunity of remedy.
But, apart from tactics, the French had a policy. Although Clemenceau
might curtly abandon the claims of a Klotz or a Loucheur, or close his
eyes with an air of fatigue when French interests were no longer
involved in the discussion, he knew which points were vital, and these
he abated little. In so far as the main economic lines of the Treaty
represent an intellectual idea, it is the idea of France and of
Clemenceau.
Clemenceau was by far the most eminent member of the Council of
Four, and he had taken the measure of his colleagues. He alone both
had an idea and had considered it in all its consequences. His age, his
character, his wit, and his appearance joined to give him objectivity and
a, defined outline in an environment of confusion. One could not
despise Clemenceau or dislike him, but only take a different view as to
the nature of civilized man, or indulge, at least, a different hope.
The figure and bearing of Clemenceau are universally familiar. At the
Council of Four he wore a square-tailed coat of very good, thick black
broadcloth, and on his hands, which were never uncovered, gray suede
gloves; his boots were of thick black leather, very good, but of a
country style, and sometimes fastened in front, curiously, by a buckle
instead of laces. His seat in the room in the President's house, where the
regular meetings of the Council of Four were held (as distinguished
from their private and unattended conferences in a smaller chamber
below), was on a square brocaded chair in the middle of the semicircle
facing the fireplace, with Signor Orlando on his left, the President next
by the fireplace, and the Prime Minister opposite on the other side of
the fireplace on his right. He carried no papers and no portfolio, and

was unattended by any personal secretary, though several French
ministers and officials appropriate to the particular matter in hand
would be present round him. His walk, his hand, and his voice were not
lacking in vigor, but he bore nevertheless, especially after the attempt
upon him, the aspect of a very old man conserving his strength for
important occasions. He spoke seldom, leaving the initial statement of
the French case to his ministers or officials; he closed his eyes often
and sat back in his chair with an impassive face of parchment, his gray
gloved hands clasped in front of him. A short sentence, decisive or
cynical, was generally sufficient, a question, an unqualified
abandonment of his ministers, whose face would not be saved, or a
display of obstinacy reinforced by a few words in a piquantly delivered
English.[6] But speech and passion were not lacking when they were
wanted, and the sudden outburst of words, often followed by a fit of
deep coughing from the chest, produced their impression rather by
force and surprise than by persuasion.
Not infrequently Mr. Lloyd George, after delivering a speech in
English, would, during the period of its interpretation into French, cross
the hearthrug to the President to reinforce his case by some ad
hominem argument in private conversation, or to sound the ground for a
compromise,--and this would sometimes be the signal for a general
upheaval and disorder. The President's advisers would press round him,
a moment later the British experts would dribble across to learn the
result or see that all was well, and next the French would be there, a
little suspicious lest the others were arranging something behind them,
until all the room were on their feet and conversation was general in
both languages. My last and most vivid impression is of such a
scene--the President and the Prime Minister as the center of a surging
mob and a babel of sound, a welter of eager, impromptu compromises
and counter-compromises, all sound and fury signifying nothing, on
what was an unreal question anyhow, the great issues of the morning's
meeting forgotten and neglected; and Clemenceau silent and aloof on
the outskirts--for nothing which touched the security of France was
forward--throned, in his gray gloves, on the brocade chair, dry in soul
and empty of hope, very old and tired, but surveying the scene with a
cynical and almost impish air; and when at last silence was restored and