I then wrote “Ambassador Morgenthau’s Story.”

On September 30, 1917, I had contributed to the New York Times an article headed, “Emperor William Must Go.” Then followed the World interview already referred to, and, on October 18th, less than a month before the Armistice, I delivered at Cooper Union an address in which I said:

On March 8, 1918, I had a meeting with Lord Reading, Lord Chief Justice of England, whom Lloyd George had sent as special Ambassador to this country. In our conversation, he revealed a fact of great historic interest.

The day before, at a luncheon given him by the Merchants’ Association of New York, Lord Reading had used what seemed a singular expression for an official representative of Great Britain. Referring to the gravity of the military situation and the necessity for America to exert her full strength, he described the tremendous sacrifices of his own people and then declared:

“You must take up the burden. We have done all we can do.”

Recalling this in our talk, I suggested that it must have been a slip of the tongue, and asked: “Did you not mean to say, ‘We (Great Britain) are doing all we can?’”

“Quite the contrary,” Lord Reading instantly replied. “I said it deliberately, and it is the fact. Every Englishman that is fit for military service has been called to the colours; we have even combed our civil service. We have no reserve man-power left.”

Nevertheless, public utterance of such a statement at such a time revealed a misconception of our national psychology. I pointed out to Lord Reading that we Americans were not yet far enough advanced in experience of war to react favourably to such a message.

Nor were the women that we met in these war activities less interesting than the men. Mrs. Emma Bailey Speer, president of the Y. W. C. A., sent a car to take me over to Tenafly, N. J., to make the dedicatory address at a new hostess house. In the car was a lady wearing the Y. W. C. A. uniform. She said that Mrs. Speer, being unable to come herself, had sent her as a substitute—and it was splendid to see how this, the daughter of Senator Aldrich, and the wife of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., could be just a good private in the Y. W. C. A. ranks, taking her position and doing her duties with seriousness and efficiency.

Soon after this, we gave a dinner in honour of Dr. Henry Pratt Judson, president of Chicago University, who had recently returned from Persia on behalf of the Near East Relief Committee. An amusing incident occurred which partly spoiled the evening for Mr. Schiff, the great financier and much beloved leader of the Jews, and recognized as one of the most eminent citizens of America. He sat next to Mrs. Rockefeller and accidentally caused the spilling of a cup of coffee over her dress. She tactfully said that the dress had been cleaned before and could be cleaned again. Nevertheless, it depressed Mr. Schiff to think that he should have been so awkward as to raise his elbow while the coffee was being passed. A week later he showed me with great satisfaction a letter from Mrs. Rockefeller, accepting the beautiful lace scarf which he had sent her with the explanation that it was to cover the spot on her dress. The incident again proves that the biggest men devote the required time and thought to straightening out even such little mishaps as that here related.

The signing of the Armistice abruptly terminated hostilities a year earlier than most people had expected. Public opinion was far from clarified upon the question as to the kind of peace treaty which should be drawn up. The public did realize, however, that it was confronted with an issue perhaps even more vital than the issues of war. A peace must be devised to end this war and prevent a recurrence of so terrible a disaster. At this time, the only powerful and organized body of men which had studied this subject and had a solution to offer was the League to Enforce Peace. The leaders of this league felt that it was a public duty to place their solution before the nation, and give it the utmost publicity in the hope that it might be serviceable in directing the course of investigations at Paris into channels of permanent benefit to humanity.

They worked out an ingenious and effective plan. Not content with merely announcing their ideas through the press or on the platform, they organized nine “congresses” in as many cities, each the centre of an important section. They arranged to have district delegates sent to the sessions of the congresses, and from five thousand to ten thousand delegates attended every one; besides, numerous audiences flocked to overflow meetings. A group of public men, headed by ex-President Taft, was organized to address the sessions, as representatives of the League. I was asked to be one of that group.

Mr. Wilson was in Paris. Fearing that this campaign might in some way embarrass him, or conflict with his plans, I consulted several Cabinet members: Secretaries Lane and Houston applauded the wisdom of the proposed campaign. Secretary Baker wrote:

I was assured that I was expected to speak only in the general terms of an association of nations without outlining any detailed plan therefor. On receipt of this assurance, I decided to go.

The party comprised ex-President Taft, President Lowell of Harvard; Dr. Henry van Dyke of Princeton; Dr. Elmer R. Brown, Dean of the Yale Divinity School; George Grafton Wilson, Professor of International Law at Harvard; Edward A. Filene, of Boston; and Mrs. Philip North Moore, of St. Louis, president of the National Council of Women. The three weeks, passed in a tour of the country with such able and delightful people, was thoroughly enjoyed.

On this journey, my acquaintance with Mr. Taft was transformed into a genuine friendship. On the first day out, it was “Mr. Morgenthau”; on the second, “Henry Morgenthau”; and on the third it became, and has since remained, “Henry.” He was a most delightful travelling companion and fellow-worker, good-humoured under all circumstances, uncomplaining under the heaviest tasks, the soul of friendliness and consideration: “To know him was to love him.” One day, as we were sitting in his compartment, discussing some details of the trip, he broke into one of his characteristic little chuckles:

“Here you have been opposing me politically all these years,” he said, “and now we’re together on the same platform for the good of the whole world. Doesn’t public service make strange compartment companions?”

Our trip was filled with hard work, exhausting hours, and not a few discomforts, but it brought us many moments of inspiration and some of amusement. Of the latter, one stands clear in my memory. We were standing unobserved at the railroad station of a small town in the Dakotas, when President Lowell thought we ought to do something “to get our blood in circulation” and challenged me to a foot race on the station platform.

“I’ll take a handicap—I’ll run backwards.”

His challenge was accepted, and he won the race. Then he confessed that running backwards was one of his accomplishments from undergraduate days.

The outstanding moments of the trip were those which immediately followed our receipt of the first draft of the League Covenant. We were steaming through Utah, when it was handed aboard. At once it was given the stenographers for manifolding, and none of us is likely to forget the impatience with which each awaited his copy, the eagerness with which each took it to his own compartment for study.

That evening President Lowell, Dr. Van Dyke, and myself were called to Mr. Taft’s compartment. He sat there, his face all aglow with satisfaction. He put his hand on his copy of the Covenant, which was lying on the table, and said:

“I am delighted to find it has teeth in it.”

We had a long discussion, concluding that we ought to prepare a pronouncement for publication. Mr. Taft asked us three to draw up a statement. We complied and called in Professors Brown and Wilson, who were very useful in condensing it. Mr. Taft read the result, approved of it, but added the concluding sentence:

That addition made, the signatures were affixed, and the train stopped at a little station to telegraph our statement to the Associated Press. The local telegrapher doubted his ability to transmit accurately a message that he considered so important as this one, but he notified the operator at the next town to be ready for us, and from there the statement was sent out in the following terms:

Mr. Taft’s endorsement of the Covenant as then drawn moved me, at our journey’s end, to telegraph to Washington suggesting that he join President Wilson in an exposition of the League before a great mass meeting. The reply came back that such a plan was already being put into execution. It was carried out at the gathering on March 4, 1919, in the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, on the eve of Mr. Wilson’s return to Paris.

That night, when the Democratic President of the United States walked on the stage with the Republican ex-President, the audience seemed almost justified in thinking that the Covenant had been lifted above partisanship and that the Magna Charta of the Nations was secure.

This conviction was strengthened by Mr. Taft’s address. He delivered it without any apparent exertion. He had thoroughly mastered the general subject during his long connection with the League to Enforce Peace, he had secured the draft of the Covenant, locked himself up with it, analyzed and digested it. He had “tried out” the subject in conferences with specialists, and presented it before popular meetings across the Continent. Now, for one hour and a half, he discussed this historic document in all its national and international phases. His address, given with natural and admirable simplicity, the quintessence of deep thought, was complete, technical, erudite, judicial: the reading of a momentous interpretation by the future Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. The speaker injected some of his native geniality into his delivery; but not for that reason alone did the vast audience listen ninety minutes without a sign of restlessness: the believers, the doubters, and the active opponents were spellbound by his logical and convincing argument.

During all this time it was more than interesting to watch the fixed attention that the President was giving to the address. We all wondered what was going on in his battling brain. Some of us noticed for the first time a nervous twitching in his cheek, undoubtedly a reflex of the tremendous harassment that he had undergone in Washington.

He had come back to America to sign some bills before the expiration of Congress on March 4th, and brought with him this Covenant. Now, before his departure for Europe, he listened to the fine approval of his ideal by his predecessor, who, though prominent in his party and highly esteemed by all Americans, was not speaking with final authority: the Senate had to approve the Covenant before it could become binding on the United States.

So Woodrow Wilson, whom the peoples of the world were ready to accept as their leader, had to return to Paris knowing that the thirty-seven Senators who had signed the “round robin” were pledged against him in terms which could have no other purpose than to notify our Associates at the Peace Conference that the Senate would not confirm any League of Nations projected by him. With this fear in his heart, he was on his way to resume his participation in the greatest diplomatic struggle of modern times. This evening, he saw again unmistakable evidence that if the American people possessed the authority and could express it, they would undoubtedly grant him the necessary power, without restrictions or reservations, to enter into an agreement, which would help to lift the world out of the mire of militarism to a higher plane, where wars would disappear, where international peace and justice would prevail, and where the combined efforts of mankind, purified and energized by its moral elevation, would be diverted from its destructive pursuits and concentrated on the promotion of happiness.

That evening I brought Homer Cummings home with me. We were both buoyed up, tingling from the enthusiasm of that great meeting, yet fearing that this League of Nations might be shattered by partisan politics.

As we settled down in my library, I said to Cummings:

“Homer, you are really neglecting your duty as National Chairman unless you undertake immediately to present to the American people the attitude of the Democratic Party toward this League of Nations, and denounce, in the unmeasured terms that it deserves this violent opposition that has developed against it.” I told him that it required a real Philippic, and then related to him my own recent experience with Demosthenes, which occurred at a dinner given to some Greeks, when Dr. Talcott Williams told an anecdote of Hellenic influence on modern life.

Williams said that some twenty-five years ago he had asked a Princeton college professor whether there was, in his opinion, any way of affecting current thought except through the pulpit or the press. The professor replied that there was the forum, and that, for his own part, he was fitting himself for the forum by a careful study of Demosthenes. Years passed, and Dr. Williams met the professor again and reminded him of his youthful conviction.

“I haven’t changed my opinion,” said the Princetonian, “and only recently I had to brush up my Greek to enable me to refresh my recollection of some of the Philippics.”

The Princeton professor was Woodrow Wilson.

When I told this story to my wife, who was both my kindest and severest critic, she immediately secured and placed on my desk, without any comment, a translation of Demosthenes. Inspired by its perusal, I dared to face a great audience in Buffalo and deliver an opening address for the Liberty Loans.

I said to Cummings: “Now, as President Wilson is returning to Europe, you, Homer, ought to be the Demosthenes of the Democratic Party.”

Cummings took fire. “I believe I can do it,” he cried.

He was the man for it. Physically big, with a commanding presence and a good delivery, his experience as a member of the Democratic National Committee, his campaigns for Mayor of Stamford and Senator from Connecticut, and his successful service as state’s attorney for Fairfield County in that state, had qualified him long since for brilliant public speaking, and latterly for public speaking of the denunciatory sort.

We consulted Demosthenes. We analyzed the Fourth Philippic.

Cummings’s eyes flashed, as he exclaimed:

“I can do it! I can do it!”

The opening was to be a vindication of the Democratic Party throughout the war and the subsequent peace negotiations: the peroration, a denunciation of the opposition.

The question remained: what forum should be selected? We canvassed the possibilities: the Economic Club, of which I was then president, and a number of others. One by one, all were dismissed. Finally, it was decided to give a small dinner at the National Democratic Club on the evening of March 14th, and to follow that immediately by a large reception, at which the speech in its first form was to be delivered.

This plan was carried to a successful conclusion, and what Cummings said that night was the basis or skeleton of his soon-famous speech at San Francisco. “The rest is history.”

Meantime, my period at home was drawing to a close. I had written for the New York Times “A Vision of the Red Cross After the War.” On March 7th, I received a cablegram from Henry P. Davison. It asked me to serve as delegate to the Conference at Cannes for the formation of the International League of Red Cross Societies. Mr. Taft and Jacob Schiff both gave me advice that matched my inclinations. On March 15th, the Times published an interview giving my point of View in regard to this trip:

I came home from the Democratic Club’s reception to Cummings, snatched a few hours’ sleep, and, on the following morning, boarded the ship that was to take me on the journey which began with the International Red Cross Conference and ended in my investigation of the Jewish massacres in Poland.

CHAPTER XVI

THE INTERNATIONAL RED CROSS

Other fellow passengers were seven physicians bound, like myself, for the international conference of Red Cross Societies at Cannes: William H. Welch, of Johns Hopkins, typifying to us all the wonderful accomplishments of the Rockefeller Institute; L. Emmett Holt, the medical foster-father of thousands of American babies; Hermann M. Biggs, who, in his official capacities, has lifted public hygiene into a recognized requirement of modern civilization; Colonel Russell, Chief of the Division of Infectious Diseases in the U. S. Surgeon-General’s office; Edward R. Baldwin, head of the well-known Saranac Lake Sanatorium for Tuberculosis; Fritz B. Talbot, of Boston, famous as a specialist in children’s diseases; and Samuel M. Hammill, head of the Pennsylvania Child-Welfare Board. With these was Mr. Chanler P. Anderson, ex-solicitor of the State Department.

We took our meals at the same table and used these often wasted hours to weave precious strands of friendship that can best be created amongst people animated by the same aims and sharing the obligations of service. At my suggestion, we decided to hold daily meetings to prepare for submission to the Conference a plan which would embody the combined thoughts of our entire party. Dr. Welch had intended to devote his time at sea to writing an article on his old associate, Dr. Osler, but rather regretfully postponed his task and accepted his usual position—that of chairman. Dr. Holt was elected secretary so that, with Dr. Biggs as vice-chairman, we transferred to our gatherings the precision and expert management of the Rockefeller Institute.

Dr. Welch’s first thought has always been of public service. Before our country entered the war, he went to the President and suggested making ready our medical practitioners and hospitals for service. Mr. Wilson appointed him to the Council of National Defense, and some day the public will be surprised to learn how much he did toward that phase of preparedness. On the Leviathan he brought out what was best in us and proved, at the age of sixty-eight, the fallacy of the popular interpretation of Dr. Osler’s statement about the end of human usefulness at forty-five.

All of the physicians were animated by this same high motive: not to commercialize their talents, but to devote much of them to research work for the benefit of mankind. As all of them were recognized authorities in their respective fields, they stated their experience and knowledge in so convincing a manner that it was like reading the last word written on the subject.

After a few days of strictly medical discussion, I ventured to read them my conception of the proper future of the Red Cross as published in the New York Times of March 15, 1919, arguing that this noble organization ought now to become militant and endeavour to reach with curative and preventive measures into the innermost recesses of both hemispheres, where diseases originate and dense ignorance prevails. We all agreed that we must remedy the intellectual deficiencies as well as the physical weaknesses of the backward peoples, and, therefore, prepared a memorandum, later presented to the Conference, recommending a broad international programme of this character.

We landed at Brest, and hurried to Paris and immediately reported to Mr. Davison. There I met Mr. Hoover’s secretary, who said that “The Chief”—a title given Hoover by all his admiring adherents—was anxious to see me. I found Hoover concerned as to whether our contemplated organization would conflict with his exclusive authority conferred by President Wilson to manage all the American relief activities everywhere. I promptly relieved his mind, assuring him that the League of the Red Cross Societies had no intention of distributing food or in any way interfering with the American Relief administration.

Our first Red Cross meeting was held next day in Mr. Davison’s office at the Regina and then we presented our programme, urging its adoption as necessary to retain the interest and coöperation of the millions of adult and junior members of the American Red Cross. But, unfortunately, Mr. Davison relied largely on Colonel Strong, and his plans were adopted; they were conventional and confined to a limited field.

A few days later, Mr. Davison gave a dinner at the little old-fashioned house on the Quai de la Tourelle. The recruits from America were meeting the scarred veterans just returned from the front-line trenches. Here were the men that had fought dismay in Italy, typhus in Servia, who had worked wonders on the Bosphorus, and saved the babies of Roumania. We heard their modest reports through which their valour and their triumphs shone like so many pillars of fire. America had done these things: all non-combatant Americans had faithfully worked to develop the organization which made them possible; we newcomers from America, burning with the volunteer spirit and ready with a programme to continue that usefulness and extend it throughout all the world, were raised, as we listened, far above the material plane.

War-time regulations were still in force: all lights should have been extinguished at 9:30, and Frederic himself popped a worried head in at the door several times to tell Davison so. Therefore, when our host called on me for the closing speech, he said:

“I regret that you will have only five minutes for it, too. The curfew has rung three times already.”

In concluding my speech, I said:

“My friends, I have been entranced by the splendid spirit displayed this evening. I have shared with you the elation of the hour.

“You field workers have inspired us by recounting the blessings that have been showered upon you by the thousands of grateful recipients of your services, while we have freshened your drooping enthusiasm and reinforced your ardour by transmitting from your millions of members at home their hopes and prayers that you will ‘Carry On.’ The determination of all the guests to transform these hopes into definite actions seems to have changed this table into an altar at which to pledge ourselves to assume this new task of further brothering those who are still crying for help.”

Next day, on the train for Cannes, when Davison called Chanler Anderson and myself into conference, I again stated that, as we had the moral, scientific, educational, and sociological experts of nearly all the world mobilized and ready for further work, it would be criminal negligence not to make use of such an unprecedented opportunity. Davison agreed as to fundamentals, but was afraid that too big a programme would frighten away the representatives of other nations. We could have the larger goal in mind, he said, and hope ultimately to reach it, but we must commence with something concrete in the conventional way to secure the coöperation of the non-American delegates.

Notwithstanding this, the Cannes Conference was an inspiring experience.

Here we were gathered from all parts of the world, exchanging condolences for the terrible ravages suffered by the various nations, watching intently, and waiting with deep fear in our hearts the outcome of the developments in Paris, hoping and praying that some definite good would result from this war, bewildered at our inability to recognize any definite signs of a coming solution, conscious that the old-fashioned diplomacy was eclipsing the modern thoughts and aims of the progressive, disinterested members at the Conference. We felt that perhaps true democracy could only exist, as it did at our Conference, where every man was chosen on account of his individual merit, and not on account of birth, or political pull, or influence; and some of us thought that, perhaps, after all, the improvement of the world would have to be brought about by a non-political body of men, whose right to serve arose from their own qualifications, and whose tenure of service would not be influenced by constant changes in government. It dawned upon us that, perhaps, these millions of members of the Red Cross Societies all over the world, with the many more millions that would join them, could undertake to establish a permanent organization that would put into practical execution all the teachings of religion, science, education, medicine, hygiene, and sociology. While those in Paris were rearranging the boundaries, we were trying to develop the universal spirit of service to all humanity which would recognize no boundaries, or class distinctions, or religious differences.

Under the presidency of Dr. Émile Roux, the worthy successor of Pasteur, it became a Congress of Scientists. Leading members of the medical profession in the Associated Nations were there, and the same tone of unselfish interest on behalf of humanity that I had found among the American representatives prevailed. Rivalries, envies, personal ambitions were totally absent; there was none of the crossing and double-crossing, scheming and misrepresentation of a political convention. These fine intellects were making a genuine effort to create an agency through which all discoveries in medicine and hygiene could be utilized for the benefit of mankind without thoughts of royalties or patents. It was a revelation to a practical business man, and I sincerely wished that more business men could profit by such an experience with practical idealists.

In private talks some of the delegates from the different countries responded wonderfully to my suggested plan, but they had been stunned by the war and were bewildered by the resultant chaos and depended on the United States to take the lead. Another thing discouraged me: no representatives were present from the general educational, sociological, or philanthropic worlds, and the best of men must necessarily see life through the glasses of their own profession. Consequently, I was not surprised, though I was disappointed, by the adoption of Colonel Strong’s programme.

It was what his remarks in Paris had indicated. Early activities were to be limited to those of an international health and statistical bureau. The Conference decided that the international societies should deal only with general hygienic improvement and child-welfare, and that even in these matters the central organization, instead of doing the actual work, should leave that to the constituent league members and confine itself to the development of policies and the collection of statistics.

The question remained: who was to be the executive of this still potentially important force?

Throughout the Conference Davison was recognized as its organizing and directing spirit. It was a delight to see him in action, to note his quick response to suggestions, his prompt absorption of committee reports, his analysis of technical addresses. Devoting the full measure of his great ability to the work, he was performing it admirably and enjoying the performance. Everything depended upon the choice of a director-general; yet here was the very man to maintain vitality in this organism: why should he not remain the leader?

The result was a heart-to-heart talk, in which I still clung to my “Vision of the Red Cross after the War.”

For two solid hours, with all the eloquence and persuasiveness I could muster, I tried to induce Henry P. Davison to abandon his business career and devote the rest of his life to this cause. I argued that the great satisfaction he plainly felt through contact with scientists of one profession indicated the enjoyment he would experience in bringing together the leaders in education, sociology, and general philanthropy; and that the ability which made him successful with the physicians would completely eclipse that success when he added to these the leaders in other fields. I told of a discussion I had had in Paris with John R. Mott, and how thoroughly he regretted that the Y.M.C.A. could not undertake this great work.

“No president of any republic,” I said, “has ever had such an opportunity as this. Here is a chance to lead an army that will eventually really improve the world. You have shown that you possess the requisite administrative ability and vision. By sterling qualities and hard work, you’ve reached the top of the business ladder. On it there is nothing above you comparable to what this new career holds. Until a few years ago you used your personal magnetism, and all the gifts so generously bestowed upon you, in finance. Now, you have been using them with phenomenal success in philanthropy. You must know that the former is ephemeral, while in the latter, the good to be done is lasting. While so many are exploiting the masses, you can lead in benefiting them. The thing that’s needed to cure the ills of man isn’t another compromise peace treaty. Practical, world-wide philanthropy is the thing that’s needed, and the man who organizes that will be the acknowledged leader of modern humanitarianism.”

Davison was really deeply moved. He listened attentively, sympathetically; he was under the spell of the ideal. But the chords that held him to materialism were too strong; he was still enmeshed.

“I’ll do everything I can to help make a success of the larger Red Cross,” he said, “but I can’t devote my entire time to it.”

“That’s not enough,” I answered. “It will be impossible for you to run an International League of Red Cross Societies the way you’re running railroads and other enterprises, from the corner of Broad and Wall streets.”

Then he put his arm around my shoulder and said, in effect:

“I don’t want to make any more money, but I owe a definite obligation to my firm and the corporations I’m connected with. I wish with my whole heart that I could go on with the Red Cross, but it’s impossible, Morgenthau—impossible!”

There being no appeal from his decision, we canvassed other names. The matter reduced itself to a choice between Franklin K. Lane and General W. W. Atterbury, and, as the latter was in France, Davison had him come to Cannes and talk the proposition over, but found that the General considered it his duty to resume his position as vice-president of the Pennsylvania Railroad as soon as he was released from the army. We then turned toward Secretary Lane, and agreed that I should send the following telegram:

The reply was another evidence of Wilson’s fine loyalty to his friends:

Davison then cabled one of his partners to see Lane personally and asked me to cable Lane direct, which was done as follows:

If Davison would have taken the director-generalship, or if it could have been given to Lane or Atterbury, or someone else of their vision and ability, the organization might have become a very different affair from what it is to-day. But this was not to be. Accident intervened before Lane would act, and the International League of Red Cross Societies added another to the list of the world’s lost chances. This is what happened:

We had come back to Paris. The Executive Committee was in session at the Hotel Regina. In an unguarded moment, Davison said:

“If Great Britain can produce a man fitted for the director-generalship, I shall consent to his appointment.”

Instantly, Sir Arthur Stanley jumped at the offer. He was president of the British Red Cross and the younger brother of the Earl of Derby, at that time British Ambassador to France. He has a lame foot, but his intellect is as agile as any man’s. His bright eyes flashed like diamonds. Trained fencer that he is, he saw the opening Davison had given him and took full advantage of it.

“I’ll investigate immediately!” said he.

I went over to Davison and in Stanley’s hearing told him that this was a mistake; the Americans should name the Director-General, because we would have to assume the burden of organization and had the resources to do so properly.

“And the French and Italians will side with you,” I added, “if it is a choice between England and us.”

Luncheon recess intervened. During it, I spoke to the Latin delegates, and they confirmed my opinion. They admitted that they had not realized what the proposition meant, and that they certainly preferred to have an American. At the afternoon session they proposed, in this hope, that the selection of a Director-General be left entirely to Davison.

He, however, said that he was committed to his proposition, though he hoped that Sir Arthur would not be able to find a man equipped for the post. Two days later, Davison informed me that Sir Arthur had proposed General David Henderson, and that he (Davison) had had thorough inquiries made about Henderson and found that his record and standing were such that no objection could be raised. Henderson became Director-General.

One last hopeful note was sounded. I had told Mr. Davison to command me if he thought I could do anything further, and I was pleasantly surprised when he came and asked me whether my offer included a dinner to the Governors of the League of the Red Cross Societies. He explained that he was making this request because a former diplomat could secure the greatly desired attendance of the diplomatic representatives now gathered at the Peace Conference.

The result was one of those thoroughly cosmopolitan dinners which could have occurred only in that city and at that time. In addition to the Red Cross board, there were present representatives of the twenty-four different countries that had been invited to join our League. Speeches were made by Ian Malcolm, speaking for Sir Arthur Stanley and Great Britain; Count Kergolay, for France; Count Frascara, for Italy; Professor Arata Nina Gawa, for Japan; Sir Eric Drummond, Secretary-General of the League of Nations; General Henderson, the newly chosen head of the Red Cross League; Count Wedel Jarlsberg, of Denmark, doyen of the Diplomatic Corps in Paris; Dr. Welch, Mrs. William K. Draper, Mr. Davison, and Dr. William Rappard, acting as interpreter and also speaking on behalf of the International Red Cross at Geneva. I presided as toastmaster and, listening to the sentiments of the various addresses, all pitched in the highest optimistic and philanthropic key, felt that here was a readiness to coöperate that, if properly directed into action, might yet launch the organization upon the seas of larger usefulness.

This hope, however, was never realized. When we failed to retain Davison as the active leader, or to get somebody of equal ability for Director-General, I feared that the League of Red Cross Societies would become a soulless bureau; that it could not undertake any of the broader activities we had hoped for, and that this wonderful nucleus of millions of adult and junior humanitarians would never be transformed into that great army of world welfare-workers which some of us had dreamed about and that all mankind so sorely needs. Subsequent events have justified my fears.

CHAPTER XVII

THE PEACE CONFERENCE

Nearly all were scheming to weaken the arch-enemy, Germany, by despoiling her of territory and creating strong safeguards around her. The best comparison that comes to my mind is that of a legal contest over the terms of a will disposing of a large estate. All the possible heirs were here in Paris: the legitimate, the illegitimate, and such posthumous children as Czecho-Slovakia and Poland were crowding into court. Five trustees had, indeed, been appointed to effect a just division—the representatives of Great Britain, France, Italy, Japan, and the United States—but these, with the exception of America, were themselves claimants, and the pleas were so conflicting that no human genius, or group of them, could have rendered a decision to the satisfaction of all. President Wilson realized this, and partly because of it proposed a League of Nations as a permanent court to settle what could not be settled at the Peace Conference.

My observations were made from an advantageous position. The hopes and ambitions of the various powers were centred in President Wilson; their representatives were courting him and his friends, and as I had, at the request of the United States commissioners, joined William H. Buckler in studying the Turkish problem, my rooms at the hotel were soon transformed into a sort of office and general meeting-place for some of the most interesting figures at the Conference.

Kerenski was one of these. He was not apparently the consumptive figure pictured by the daily press; on the contrary, he was a burly man with a thick neck and a mighty voice. When he pleaded his case, he waxed so eloquent, and his tones reached such a pitch, that I had to close the windows for fear outsiders might think there was a fight in my rooms.

Although representing no established government and personifying the Russian régime that had overthrown Czarism, only to be itself supplanted by the Bolsheviki, Kerenski felt that the services of the real Russian people to the Allied cause entitled his party to a hearing at the Peace Conference. Prophetically, he told me that the extremists did not represent the Russian people, and that they were forcing things too far ever to succeed. I remember almost his exact words:

“Russia is finished with the past, but is by no means ready to go to its antithesis. I myself represent the middle course, and the world will some day realize that my government was evolutionary, not revolutionary.”

Kerenski was especially hurt by the fact that “even the Americans” would not listen to him. With fiery phrases, he explained convincingly that there could be no general peace until Russian affairs were adjusted, and that 160,000,000 people who had so manfully contributed their full share against Prussianism could not justly, or even safely, be ignored.

“I am not the spokesman of them all,” he admitted; “but I do represent the political sentiment that must eventually prevail.”

Dr. Robert Lord was in charge of Russian affairs for the American delegation. I had him meet Kerenski the next day in my rooms, and from this meeting an invitation to the Crillon followed.

A more pathetic picture was that presented by the Chinese delegation. They gave a dinner to a number of Americans, including Thomas Lamont, Edward A. Filene, Senator Hollis, Charles R. Crane, Professor Taussig, and myself. The affair may have been hopefully conceived, but, on that very day, Ray Stannard Baker came to them with President Wilson’s message that he had to consent to the Japanese pretensions in Shantung.

We had gone for a banquet; we remained for a wake. The Chinese delegates frankly feared that their failure to secure a proper adjustment with Japan might so exasperate their people at home as to lead to personal harm to them. They felt that their treatment by the Conference would arouse their nation from its ancient lethargy and transform it into a military power that might eventually avenge its injured pride. One of them said to me:

“We have a much firmer moral foundation than Japan, and we have a population of 400,000,000 as against its 56,000,000. We possess as much latent power as the Japanese, and I dread to contemplate what may happen if it is ever aroused.”

To look into the eyes of those Chinamen as they talked to us and to observe their bearing under the trying circumstances of that evening was to learn a lesson in restraint. The gravity of their situation was freely admitted, and yet they were perfect hosts to us Americans whose leader had just disappointed them.

Even more pathetic than the Chinese discouragement was the hopeless case of the Persian delegates. Having come thousands of miles to present their plea for a new opportunity to achieve national regeneration, they were denied even a hearing by the peace commissioners. They pleaded for a release from the British-Russian yoke. They told us wonderful stories of their natural resources that could be developed promptly and with great profit if they could only be assured of security, or if they could feel secure from the interference by the larger nations, and assured of the coöperation of, instead of exploitation by, foreign capital. They alluded to iron and coal, copper, lead, and manganese. The stories they told reminded one of the descriptions of Mexico and Peru before they were conquered by Cortez and Pizarro. Those cases involved all the risks of conquest in an unknown country, and the voyages thither were fraught with grave danger, while here was a nation whose resources were not in doubt, but could be examined at leisure, and by experts, and their existence proven; and the Persians who had been educated abroad and knew European conditions fairly implored us to bring within the reach of Persia the benefits of the progress made by these other countries during the last few hundred years, while Persia was allowed to remain untouched and unbenefited by those wonderful recent inventions that have enriched all the countries that utilized them. Ali Kuli Khan, with his charming American wife, whom I had known previously, told me that, at a large dinner which the Persians had given, one of our American Peace Commissioners publicly promised them that the United States delegation would help them to a hearing; relying on this promise, Ali Kuli Khan had transmitted the news to his home government, only to have his hopes speedily dashed to pieces.

Bratiano, the Roumanian premier, was anxious to secure American influence against a clause in the Roumanian treaty recognizing the rights of minority peoples resident in his country. He invited my wife and me to dine with him and two royal princesses of his native land, Elizabeth and Marie, who have since respectively become the wives of the Crown Prince of Greece and the King of Serbia. When I told him that the United States was absolutely pledged to securing the equal rights for minorities everywhere, and that I heartily favoured this, he showed his disappointment and said that Roumania would never consent to it. He declared:

“I would rather resign as premier than sign such a treaty.”

When the time came, he made good his word.

In contrast to this unyielding ultra-conservative’s point of view was the Duc de Vendôme’s, the Bourbon, and as such, of the royal blood of France. He was married to the sister of the King of Belgium. It is rather an amusing story to tell how I became acquainted with him. While we were at Cannes in the midst of the conferences, one day, Colonel Strong interrupted me at lunch to introduce me to a Miss Curtis from Boston, who invited some of us to lunch with her in order to meet some of the residents of Cannes. We accepted and met, among others, Lady Waterlow, an American, whose husband had been Lord Mayor of London. This acquaintance resulted in her inviting us to a tea at her home, and I there met the Duchess of Vendôme, and at that meeting she invited me to call on them in Paris, as her husband desired to make my acquaintance.

I saw the Vendomes several times, and at a reception which they gave the guests were all bewildered as to when they had the right to sit down. They could not sit if any of the royalties were standing, and as five were at the reception, it was quite a task to watch until all were seated. The Duke saw my embarrassment and took me into a private room, which no other royalty was apt to invade, and we sat there and he opened his heart to me. He seemed convinced of the justice of the new order of things, and thought that royalty would soon be a lost profession. He was extremely anxious to be permitted to share in the work of the League of Nations, and asked me to arrange for him an opportunity to meet Colonel House, whom he, like many others in Paris at that time, thought would be the chief of the representatives of the United States in the League of Nations. The dinner was arranged, and it was somewhat amusing, and my democratic spirit smiled at the spectacle of a duke and brother-in-law of one of the few remaining kings in Europe acting like an American politician and wire-pulling for an opportunity to render public service.

Still more striking was the freer manner of Vesnitz, the gatherings at whose house were thoroughly cosmopolitan. He had been Serbian Minister in Paris, and now represented there the new Jugo-Slavia, which he had helped to create. Whereas Bratiano had represented only the aristocracy, Vesnitz represented all the Croats, Serbs, and Slovenes. He wanted this new nation to be self-supporting, with its own seaport and sufficient hinterland. He, too, was married to an American, and thought and talked like one. He spoke perfect English, was a man of much learning, and his country suffered a great loss when he died.

Another outstanding Old-World democrat at the Peace Conference was Venizelos. The Greek Premier was anxious to impress us with the justice of his country’s claims, and through Mr. Politis, his Foreign Minister, and Dr. Metaxa, whom I had known in New York, we met soon after my return to Paris.

Born in the Isle of Crete, Venizelos had participated in the Revolution that freed his island from Turkey and made it a part of Greece. He started the Progressive movement in Greece, and became the leader of that group which prevented King Constantine from joining with Germany in the war. Later, despite the efforts of Queen Olga, the Kaiser’s sister, this forceful lawyer brought Greece into the war on the side of the Allies.

Because of his charm of manner, his assertiveness, and his persuasive powers, he accomplished wonders in Paris. The fact that he spoke English was a great help to him. It was a common saying that when Venizelos left Colonel House’s room, the map-makers were sent for to re-draw the map. He asked for more than he expected, and got it nearly all. He possessed the suavity and diplomatic skill of a Benjamin Franklin and the constructive statesmanship of an Alexander Hamilton. He had a firm grip of all the ramifications and complications of international affairs. Nations, no matter what their government may be, are still ungrateful. Greece eventually preferred Constantine to Venizelos!

When discussing with Henry White the Greek invasion of Smyrna, I told him that the Greeks were making a mistake and that they would be drawn into a tedious struggle with the Turks. They would have to draw heavily on their resources and on their people’s patience, which would be severely strained if, as I feared, the war lasted for years. White was deeply impressed.

“I want you to tell that to Venizelos,” he said.

He knew everybody, and his bringing people together was not the least of his services to our Commission. He invited the Greek Premier to his rooms in the Crillon, and there I repeated my opinion.

I told him in great detail the changes that had taken place in Turkey since the beginning of the war, and described to him the characters of the men that were now in power. I also explained to him the great importance they put on retaining possession of the Port of Smyrna, now that they had lost most of their other ports on the Mediterranean. I felt certain that they would draw the Grecian Army back into their hinterland, and away from their base of supplies, and then would continue to fight them by legitimate, or even guerrilla, methods, until they exhausted them. I reminded him how the Turks not only forbade their own people to employ Greeks, but even insisted that the American firms could not use Grecian workmen to collect the licorice root, or the Singer Manufacturing Company continue to have Greeks in charge of their Turkish agencies. I also alluded to the difficulties of governing Smyrna from Athens, as Constantinople would divide their country, and the cost of administration would be beyond the present and prospective resources of Greece, and, finally, I reminded him that they would antagonize Italy and said: “You know better than I do what that means for Greece.”

Venizelos listened patiently to my elaboration of this theme.

“Perhaps we have acted too hastily,” he said, “and if all you say is true, it may have been unwise for us to send an army into Smyrna, but now that the army is there, it would be more unwise to withdraw it—to do so would admit military, and court political, defeat. The Monarchists are plotting constantly against me in Athens, and they are backed by the merchants and shipping men who are over-ambitious and want new territory for their operations.”

Venizelos admitted that he favoured the annexation of Thrace and of Smyrna proper. His explanation satisfied me that it was pressure from Greek financiers that made him continue to enlarge his demands.

My meeting with the subsequent premier of France came later. Stephen Lausanne, editor of that powerful journal, Le Matin, asked me to lunch with Bunau-Varilla, the Matin’s owner, a power in French politics. I was surprised to find present quite a number of people, among whom were the Belgian financier, Count Aupin, and the heavily moustached, stoop-shouldered man that headed the French delegation to the Washington Disarmament Conference. We discussed the future attitude of the United States toward France, and, when the party was breaking up, Lausanne detained me.

“Don’t go,” he said: “Briand wants to talk with you.”

Aristide Briand, who had five times been Prime Minister of France, was then, as always, at the head of a strong political faction. Once the friend, he had now long been the rival of Clemenceau, could almost at any moment have overthrown the Clemenceau Cabinet, and was puzzling many people by his delay in executing such a manœuvre. What he wanted of me was information concerning a matter that directly affected this situation.

France’s financial troubles were the stumbling block: The country’s tax-payers were already overburdened, yet a larger revenue must be raised. Briand and his friends felt that the man who, as Premier, attempted to set those troubles right, and who failed in the difficult endeavour, would not remain Premier for long. They considered leaving the ungrateful job to Clemenceau, unless they could put through the Chamber of Deputies their brilliant idea.

They wanted to pay off the French war debt by means of a lottery loan. There would be daily prizes. They contemplated one as high as a million francs. And they expected to sell a large proportion of the tickets in America!

What, they asked, did I think of the plan?

“Gentlemen,” I said, “you are evidently unaware that there is a law against lotteries in the United States.”

“But this lottery,” said Briand, “would be in France; we would merely sell tickets in America through the mails.”

“It was precisely by forbidding the use of the mails for such purposes,” I explained, “that we stopped lotteries. It is a criminal offence to sell lottery-tickets in the United States or to use our mails for that purpose.”

I shall never forget the expression of disappointment with which Briand and Count Aupin greeted this announcement. It meant that their scheme must be abandoned and that Briand must still longer postpone the overthrow of Clemenceau.

Much of what was passing behind the scenes at the Conference it would not be proper for me to tell. Part of that is the story of “The Passing of the Third-Floor Front,” when the meetings of the American Commissioners were transferred from Colonel House’s room on the third floor of the Crillon to Secretary Lansing’s rooms on the first floor. But there is an anecdote that I do venture to repeat because it throws a light on the character and careful methods of Lloyd George.

Even the British Premier was keen to gain favour with those close to President Wilson, and one night he invited to dine with him Admiral Cary T. Grayson, whom he knew to be not only Mr. Wilson’s physician, but one of his personal confidants as well. Now, Grayson was a Southerner of the Southerners; he was born in Virginia’s Culpepper County, and studied at William and Mary College. Consequently, he pricked up his ears when Lloyd George’s entire table conversation confined itself to that America which lies south of Mason-and-Dixon’s line. The Premier showed himself specially familiar with the career of Stonewall Jackson, for whom he professed a warm admiration. Finally, the dinner ended, Mr. Lloyd George’s niece went to the piano, and sang—American Southern melodies!

This was too much for Grayson.

“How is it,” he said, “that you all have such an intimate knowledge of my part of America?”

Perhaps this direct query took the Premier by surprise. Anyhow, he confessed:

“Well, you see I have just finished reading Henderson’s ‘Life of Stonewall Jackson.’”

Grayson’s response was in the good old American fashion:

“My dear sir, no matter what office you run for, you’ll have my vote!”

There was one interlude to my activities in Paris that should be mentioned if only for the sake of the stir it created back home. This was my speech at Coblenz, when I told the American soldiers there that another war impended.

It was in May of 1919 that we took a trip to the occupied territory and visited Coblenz, Cologne, and Wiesbaden. I remember that we were at first much impressed by the unbending dignity of the young captain who was our escort until, one day, we stopped at Treves for lunch. We had just seated ourselves when a woman’s voice called out:

“Why, hello Pinky!”

We all turned round, but the Captain jumped. He had red hair, and the woman who greeted him by the nickname that his hair had won him before he achieved his military dignity was Peggy Shaw, of New York, who soon showed us her soldiers’ theatre and rest-room in a barn where she served lemonade out of buckets to the Army of Occupation. Thenceforward, the Captain was “Pinky” to us all.

At Coblenz we were billeted at the house of Von Grotte, the German president of the Rhineland provinces, and when I woke that first morning I could not help thinking of the changes that had taken place in my life between my birth at Mannheim in 1856 and this day at Coblenz in 1919. Soon I was seated in the Coblenzer-Hof partaking of a good American breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, bacon, wheat-cakes and molasses, and no doubt a better meal than any German had that day, and looking at “Old Glory” afloat over Ehrenbreitstein. How full historically the interim had been! How strange to see the American flag above this fortress on the Rhine, while, below, a bronze statue of William I looked on in woeful contemplation of the wreckage to his Empire that his grandson had wrought.

Anxious to learn the true state of mind of the German people, I asked an American Military Intelligence officer to arrange for me to talk with some of the leading citizens of Coblenz. He did so at the home of the best known lawyer of the city, where, besides our host, were a prominent doctor, the largest local paper manufacturer, an export merchant, and several others.

It took a couple of bottles of Rhine wine to loosen their tongues. Finally, one said:

“Here we are in the afternoon of life, each of us a leader in his calling. We all had accumulated a competency when the war came but some 20 per cent. of this has been taken in taxes, and the remainder is to-day worth scarcely one fifth of its original value. [A mark was then worth about five cents.] We have scarcely one sixth of what we formerly possessed in actual wealth. Instead of yielding us a sufficient annual income on which to live, our principal now amounts to only three years’ normal income.”

They all said that their business prospects were at an end.

“But surely your profession goes right on,” I protested to the physician.

“I am as badly off as the others,” he answered, “three of these men are my best and oldest patients: how can I charge them any more than I did before the war? Moreover, many of my patients I can’t charge anything at all.”

As one of the company expressed it, they felt that France wanted to turn them into galley-slaves: “She has put us into the hold of a ship; the hatches are battened down, and on them are sitting a lot of politicians from Paris to make sure that we never get out.”

The manufacturers said that the young men of ability and energy would not submit to “such slavery.” They would seek other fields of activity, and eventually drift to a country like Russia, where skilled managers and intelligence were at a premium.

All the Coblenzers present maintained the belief that the war had been forced upon their country by the French and the Russians combining to crush them. I could not convince them that their own war-lords had brought about the catastrophe, and that the German people, including even their socialists, were responsible because their representatives in Parliament voted for the war-credits. They had been told that this was a war of self-defense, and they believed it. Now that the autocrats and junkers had been overthrown, they thought that the people should not be held responsible for the mistakes of the militarists. They felt that Germany should be permitted to enter the family of nations and given a chance to recover and pay her debts.

A few days later, I gave a talk to the American soldiers in the Liberty Hut at Coblenz, to which reference has been made.

“At present,” I said, “we are enjoying only a suspension of hostilities. Please don’t go home and tell the people that this war is over. We have got to prepare for a greater conflict, a greater sacrifice, a greater responsibility. The young men of America will again have to fight. The manifold and conflicting demands of all nations at the Peace Conference are impossible of fulfillment. Many delegates to the Conference will leave Paris with their demands unsatisfied. The nations are going to have further quarrels and disputes. I believe that within fifteen years America will be called upon really to save the world.”

“The battle between democracy and anarchy,” I argued, “will continue and will result in the bankruptcy of the participating nations. It is necessary for the United States to prepare, so that when a crisis comes, we shall be able to create a coöperative spirit between our capital and labour, and thus be so united and so strong that we can save civilization from annihilation.”