We may lay it down as one of the great facts of the present international state of mind, that the world is intent on some sort of an association of nations. It is not set, so far as one can determine, on any particular covenant, though of course there is one to which some fifty nations of the world have subscribed and in which for some two years now they have been doing increasingly practical work in adjusting difficulties between nations. The very fact that the League of Nations lives—the divers ways in which its adventures in world unionism come to us—only makes the idea of association stronger in the minds of the peoples of the earth.
The Conference might limit armaments, naval and land, in the nine nations that were here gathered. It might make settlements of the Far Eastern questions, but there still would remain the rest of the world. It is a part of things. The world is one. It has come to a consciousness of its oneness. Nothing can dull that consciousness, stop the determination to realize it. Not Mr. Borah, not Mr. Lodge. Somehow we have got to learn to come together and stay together. Walt Whitman once said of Abraham Lincoln’s passion for the Union that unionism had become “a new virtue” with him,—a virtue like honesty, goodness, truthfulness. There is no manner of doubt that in the minds of this world unionism is coming to be regarded as a virtue; that the demand for its realization as the only road to world peace is becoming more and more universal.
Mr. Harding may have seen this. He may have gone over in his mind the steps that in the last twenty-five years—not to go back farther—the world has taken toward this—the steps at the Hague, the various peace conferences, the greatest of all experiments now making at Geneva—and he may have seen that he could no longer deny the demand of this people that he take another step toward the realization of this great hope. Whatever the reason, however, of his unexpected suggestion, it served the excellent purpose of turning the mind of the public to the fact that however complete the work of the Conference might be there would still be more to do if the world was to remain at peace.
In the meantime the Conference itself was going steadily ahead. Everybody seemed cheerful. Everybody was cheerful. If the Conference had rocked on its base for a moment, it had come back to its position; and it was obvious enough, too, from all that one heard and saw, that there was going soon to be something definite and important to announce as a result of the work that was going on.
CHAPTER VII
DRAMATIC DIPLOMACY
Who was the dramatist of the Conference on the Limitation of Armament? Mr. Hughes? I would never have believed it. I could never have conceived of his deliberately staging his diplomatic achievements with an appreciation of the time, the place and the world at large which was really amazing. It did not need Mr. Balfour’s delicate and humorous understanding to point out to those who were present at the opening on November 12 that the dramatic quality of Mr. Hughes’ great speech rivaled, if it did not outstrip, its splendid matter. But who would have believed that he would repeat himself? Yet he did it. Just four weeks from his first great coup he pulled off another that had every element of drama which characterized the first—and it had more—strains of genuine emotion and one scene of biting satire. (Not for a moment, however, do I believe that Mr. Hughes intended that.)
The surprise of the opening day of the Conference, November 12, lay in the unexpectedness of what Mr. Hughes had to say. The first surprise, of December 10, lay in the fact that there was to be a full session. It was not until nearly midnight of the 9th that it was announced. A few diners lingering late heard of it. The press of course was informed. But to most of us the news came when we opened our morning paper over our coffee—a full headline across the top of the page—
PLENARY SESSION TO-DAY
Of course we realized that it was going to be a big day. For days there had been hidden in the mists about the Conference something which those who were able to penetrate near to the center of things declared to be a treaty. Watching this treaty emerge was like watching a ship come out of a thick fog. There were warning signals, faint at first, but growing more and more distinct—the Anglo-Japanese pact was dying. If the United States wished it, it should go; and it was certain that the United States had for a long time wished it,—also Australia and other parts of the British Empire. Then we began to hear more and more from another direction—signals that had been sounded at intervals for weeks before the Conference convened. Japan was uneasy about the naval bases in the Pacific. She would like to have them dismantled. As one listened one began to understand that Mr. Hughes’ program of naval limitation would stay where it was until something had been done about both the Anglo-Japanese Pact and the Islands of the Pacific.
The logic of the situation began to be clear. The fair-minded began to ask themselves, “Well, now, after all, how can we expect Japan to strip herself of ships, if she must, as seems to be inevitable, give up her understanding with England? How can we expect her to weaken her defenses and take no exception to the fortifications in the waters near her? She is the member of this Conference that is being asked to sacrifice until it hurts, and the only one. Is it fair to ask her to sacrifice without guarantees? Is there any way out but a treaty—a treaty in which we join?”