France, Her Politicians, and the Washington Conference

I

NEVER would I consent to write about France’s present-day politicians without making it clear that the politicians are not the French people. For it is impossible, with the utmost indulgence, for anyone who has honestly regarded them at work to refrain from some criticism of them. Unfortunately, there has grown up a fallacy that, in speaking without flattery of a country’s accidental and temporary leaders, one is in some way attacking the country. It is not so: for my part, I think France is relatively sound. The French people have superb qualities; they deserve all the eulogies that have been or could be written of them, though naturally they have not escaped the contagion of the world-sickness. They have shown a solid sense, a rooted stability, a laboriousness, that are beyond praise. If France has ever shown signs of revolutionary tendencies, — as she did during one period at least, —it has been because she was misguided; and she quickly recovered herself. No country in the world is less likely to break loose, to run into excesses, whether of Militarism or of Socialism. Always does the restraining force of the people keep the wilder spirits — whether those wilder spirits are Nationalist ministers or Communist agitators — in check.

Whenever I wish to know the true sentiments of ordinary folk, I make a little tour of the cabarets of Paris. In the revues there presented I am perpetually surprised at the healthy reaction against Bolshevism on the one hand and against flamboyant and fireeating patriotism on the other hand (though it must be confessed that every chansonnier has his couplet against England). Anyone who supposes that the people liked the call-up of Class 19 of the army, the demobilization, the remobilization, and the demobilization again of young Frenchmen; anyone who supposes that the French people love to indulge in flourishes and menaces toward Germany, threats of occupation, of dislocation, vauntings of victory and vainglorious strutting, need only listen intelligently to the skits on drum-beating in the spirituel shows of Paris, which are applauded vociferously. Ministers and Muscovites are good game: they are not angrily railed at, they are wittily satirized; they are for the most part tolerated as inevitable and not particularly important. I have heard nearly every politician of note twitted, with the full approbation of the audience. To tell the truth, throughout the history of the Republic, Parliament and Cabinet have been held in little esteem, while President after President has been mercilessly mocked. There is, in short, a curious separation of people and rulers; and the rulers do not always adequately represent the sentiments of the people. For my part,

I do not know any country in which this division is more marked.

Nor, oddly enough, do the journals which are read by everybody reflect, in their politics, the spirit of the people: they reflect the particular view of the Quai d’Orsay and of other government offices, from which, by an elaborate system, they receive the mot d’ordre. Less and less am I inclined to form my appreciation of public opinion from a reading of the French newspapers. Public opinion, in the sense in which the term is now employed, is merely the passing opinion of a passing minister, transmitted through ‘inspired’ journalists. Many misconceptions about the French may be avoided if it is remembered how deliberate is the present method of doping the journals. As for the foreign pressmen, it is unhappily true that the red ribbon which indicates the Legion of Honor exercises a hypnotic effect on many of them. I know some who lose no opportunity of writing comfortable things, of placing themselves at the disposition of the propaganda service which has been openly set up — and of submitting their claims to be decorated at due intervals.

The very word propaganda, since the war, has become obnoxious. It is not, of course, a peculiarly French institution: all governments now advertise, like automobile manufacturers or soapmakers, and have brought the art of suppression, of distortion, of extravagant praise, to a point where it slops over into the grotesque. American visitors to France, of any degree of note, are particularly fêted, and columns of the newspapers are devoted to the tours of American associations. It is probably the French rather than the American organization which is responsible for this fantastic fanfaronnade. I submit that, while we should try to know each other, the present methods of propaganda do not help us to know each other. On the contrary, they serve to rouse suspicion; and extravagant laudation and obviously official representations of facts provoke only a smile, or even an exclamation of disgust. As an organ for propaganda the press is becoming played out: it has been overworked.

This is not, of course, to suggest that the present French politicians do not possess admirable qualities. They are nearly all intensely patriotic; though patriotism is a virtue that may easily become a vice if pushed to extremes. They have considerable parliamentary ability; though this again is a merit that was better suited to the pre-war days, when the problems were not of a vast, universal character. It is when one judges them by the great international standard of world needs that one regrets to see no truly big figure emerging.

But, then, in what country does the world-man emerge? Where is the statesman who sees, what so many thinkers now see, that what the times call for is someone who can lift himself above frontiers, who can escape the limiting moment, whose vision can embrace the future and go round the globe? It is heartbreaking, when superior intellect, superior emotion, are needed as never before, to subordinate the smaller craft of national parliamentarianism to the bigger task of announcing and realizing the interdependence of the peoples, that more than ever we should be all working in our watertight compartments, doing our partial, uncoördinated jobs. It may be that the machinery of civilization has outgrown the capacity of its mechanicians. What was good enough before the war is not good enough now; and the pre-war mind is incapable of grappling with post-war problems. The terms of those problems have changed: they are not affairs of State, but affairs of the world. It is extraordinary that the peace has thrown up no new men. This is true of all countries (excepting Russia, where the new men have indulged in a disastrous experiment). It is particularly true of France, where practically all the men worth mentioning are the old, tried men.

As I write, I cannot forecast what will be done at Washington; I can only anticipate that the American delegates will be purely American, the British purely British, and the French purely French; each concerned to defend the narrow interests of his own country, when it is a generous coöperation of all countries that is called for. There are some questions, such as general disarmament, such as a general economic and financial settlement, that nobody seems big enough to tackle seriously and honestly; nobody seems big enough even to approach them, except with the desire to show that his own nation is in an exceptional position and cannot conform to any suggested world-order. Most of the ills from which we suffer are not national: they cannot be settled by national statesmen, but only by men with the international mind, men with an outlook as broad as mankind. There are no sectional cures: there are only radical remedies.

H. G. Wells, in his Outline of History, says of the politicians of a certain Roman epoch that they only demonstrate how clever and cunning men may be, how subtle in contention, how brilliant in pretense, and how utterly wanting in wisdom and grace of spirit. It seems to me, as it seems to Mr. Wells, that this is a true description of most of the politicians of all countries to-day. It must not be supposed that France is in this respect different from other nations. I am bound to say this much; but, having said it, I must take another measure and paint the French politicians for what they are. They do not, any more than do the men in power in other countries, reach ideal dimensions: they must be judged on their plane.

II

It is a somewhat extraordinary fact that three, at least, of the little group of men who are most conspicuous in French politics, who have climbed to the heights of power, began their career as Socialists. Robert Louis Stevenson, I remember, suggests somewhere that most of us begin as revolutionaries and end up, somewhere about middle age, as conservatives. Certainly it would be difficult to find better examples of this inevitable evolution in the human spirit than are furnished by that trio, Alexandre Millerand, Aristide Briand, and René Viviani. Of course, it is foolish to make a charge of inconsistency. No man can be judged by his youth. It is to their credit that, before they acquired the reticences of later years, before they learned that progress is slow and must be orderly, these distinguished Frenchmen were aflame with the passion of putting the world to rights. However violently, in certain cases, aspirations toward a better order of things were expressed; however incandescent were their sympathies with the downtrodden; however excessive were sometimes their remedies, it does honor to them that they were moved by essentially noble impulses. He is, indeed, a poor man who has never felt wild yearnings, has never been guided rather by the heart than by the head.

When I look round the political field in France, I am invariably surprised with the recurring discovery that not only these three, but nearly all prominent publicists and politicians, have passed through this stage of ardent, if unruly, enthusiasm. They have not entered the arena coldly, calculatingly. They became gladiators because of their generous emotions. They have been shaped into what they are to-day by experience. This is excellent, and is entirely in their favor. It may be that instances could be discovered where the ensuing disillusionment has induced cynicism. But, on the whole, such a beginning is a proof of sincerity.

On the other hand, they are naturally open to the attacks of the Communists of to-day, who frequently quote against them their speeches of other days and show that they now oppose that which they aforetime promoted. For example, M. Millerand, in 1896, in a famous discourse, proclaimed the right to strike; and in 1920, following a strike, he instituted proceedings against the Confédération Générale du Travail, which have helped to bring this association of trade-unions to its present position of impotence. He was, again, a foremost figure in anti-clerical movements and liquidated the congregations, while during his premiership last year he commenced the negotiations for reëstablishing relations with Rome. It is, however, a peculiarly little mind that would make these apparent reversals of policy a reproach. There was a moment when it was important, above all, to assert the right to strike. There was another moment when the superior interests of the country demanded the suppression of dangerous agitation. There was a moment, when the priesthood had become mischievous in France and menaced the Republic. And there was another moment when diplomatic reasons urged the appeasement of the old religious quarrel. Those abstract politicians who forget that circumstances are of more importance than doctrines are open to criticism. Whatever M. Millerand has done, it should never be forgotten that, when he entered the cabinet of Waldeck-Rousseau as the first Socialist minister, he initiated many remarkable social reforms. To him are due pensions, a weekly rest-day for workers, and the shortening of hours for women and children employed in industry.

Most of his ministerial work has been in connection with internal affairs. He has been an able organizer; he is a hard worker of the dogged rather than the brilliant kind. Certainly he is tenacious. When he became Prime Minister after the defeat of M. Clemenceau, who had expected to become President of the Republic, French opinion was just beginning to turn against the authors of the treaty, and was beginning to proclaim that England (to employ a French expression) had taken most of the blanket for herself. Mr. Lloyd George, regarded as too clever by half, was beginning to be cordially detested in France; and it was not long before M. Clemenceau was accused of having given way on almost every point to the British Premier. The old Tiger, who had been placed upon a higher pedestal than any statesman of the Third Republic, now discovered that the Tarpeian Rock was near to the Capitol. There were even clamors for his trial in the High Court of Justice, for having sacrificed French interests in favor of his friends, the English.

The task of M. Millerand, following this amazing fall of M. Clemenceau from the heights of popularity to the depths of unpopularity, was difficult. It was his function to resist Mr. Lloyd George. With his shrewd sense, however, he was aware that a compromise with Germany was inevitable and desirable. But behind him was the clamorous Bloc National, refusing, even in the name of a policy of realism, any further concessions to Germany in respect of reparations, and declining to take any practical step which might be construed as a concession to British views. There began a long-drawn-out fight between France and England. The attempt to get away from the sentimentalism of the Versailles Treaty, with its grotesquely impossible demands on Germany, was rendered hard by the suspicions of Parliament. While dislike of England grew, anger against Germany grew; and every time that Germany’s debt was defined (still in unreasonable terms), M. Millerand was in danger of being overthrown.

More time was needed for the truth to dawn on the politicians, not only of France, but of the Allies generally — the truth that there are limits, easily reached, to the transfer of wealth from one country to another; that, speaking broadly, wealth can be transferred only in the shape of goods which it is against the industrial and commercial interests of the receiving country to accept. This truth has also its application to America, who can be paid what is owing to her by the Allies only in the form of goods which she puts up tariff barriers to keep out.

Gradually the world is awakening to the fact that the only rational policy is one which consists in canceling, not of necessity nominally, but virtually, the bulk of international debts, German or Allied, and in resuming as quickly as possible normal trade-relations. This does not mean, of course, that Germany should make no reparations. She should be made to pay all that it is possible for her to pay; but chiefly she should be obliged to help in the rebuilding of the ruined North, as now, at long last, she promises to do under the Loucheur-Rathenau accord, which makes hay of the treaty and of the London Agreement, and of the principle of collective negotiations and action against Germany. France has, I think, reached a point where the more or less willing coöperation of victor and vanquished is seen to be necessary. But when M. Millerand was in power, he was unable to carry out such a policy. At Spa, where he consented to meet the Germans, matters only became worse. It was assuredly not his fault. Events could not be hurried. It will still take some years before Europe can get far on the right lines. But it must be said of M. Millerand that he did at Spa adumbrate the possibility of voluntary arrangements.

M. Millerand would not be human if he did not sometimes give way to sudden impulses. There was in this atmosphere of opposition between France and England every excuse for his desire to demonstrate the independence of France — not to be forever subordinate to England. There were several incidents that appeared to be inspired by a determination to break the supposed hegemony of England. The Entente is not to be lightly thrown away; but some of the consequences of the Entente, when they run counter to French policy, must be destroyed. M. Millerand may be looked upon as a friend of the Entente, but an enemy of British domination. Thus, he revolted against the British tolerance of Germany’s non-fulfillment of her obligations, by marching on Frankfort. Then, against the express advice of England, he recognized Wrangel, that anti-Bolshevist adventurer whose moment of glory soon passed. Then he took Poland’s part when Poland had foolishly provoked a war with Russia, and England counseled conciliation — sending General Weygand to save Warsaw. It was precisely this lucky stroke which secured for him the Presidency of the Republic. It seemed hopeless to think of beating back the Bolsheviki from before Warsaw — but the miracle happened. He soared into popularity, and as, at that time, M. Deschanel, the President, had fallen ill and was compelled to resign, he was carried triumphantly to the Élysée.

It may be taken that, as President, M. Millerand exercises more authority than most of his predecessors have exercised. He is extremely strong-willed, and on his acceptance of his seven-year post, declared that he intended that the premiers he would call should carry out his policy. In France it is not as in America: the President has, constitutionally, little power. The executive chief is the Premier, who is responsible to Parliament and whom Parliament can make or break. Nevertheless, a man like M. Millerand, if he is surrounded by influential supporters and has really the favor of Parliament, can become supreme. It is only when he is faced by a Premier who is backed up by Parliament, and whose policy is in opposition to that of the President, that he must submit, on pain of being broken, as was President MacMahon. M. Poincaré has recently shown that against M. Clemenceau — then at the height, of the power derived from Parliament and people — he could do nothing, even though he was strenuously against the provisions of the treaty. The president may be indeed nothing in France, and the Élysée may be a prison. There are those who assert that M. Poincaré, who now enjoys much backing, would have been earlier called to the premiership had not M. Millerand passed him over, just as M. Poincaré for a long time passed over M. Clemenceau. However that may be, M. Leygues, who succeeded M. Millerand as Premier, was little more than the nominee of M. Millerand, carrying out his instructions. M. Briand presently succeeded M. Leygues, and although M. Briand is far from being colorless, Premier and President have worked amicably together, and M. Millerand may be considered to be still in the ascendant, still the supreme authority in France, in fact as in name.

III

M. Aristide Briand, more than any other French politician, has won the reputation of being shrewd and skillful in emergencies. If one wishes for confirmation of this opinion, it is necessary to see him in a tight corner. He knows how to get out of tight corners better than anyone. It may sometimes be thought that he might have avoided getting into tight corners.

Now M. Briand is a fine manœuvrer: it is exhilarating to watch him placing his opponents, when they are most cocksure, in an impossible situation. His method of speech-making is a lesson in Parliamentary strategy. It is odd that, in a country so renowned for its eloquence, the written speech is so common. Often have I seen an orator who has gained great fame take out of his pocket his typewritten reply to a simple expression of thanks for attending a luncheon, and proceed to read formal or flowery phrases. It is somewhat disconcerting to the AngloSaxon, who is used to impromptu speeches — the substance of which is doubtless well prepared, but of which the words are left largely to the inspiration of the moment. It is with us regarded as a confession of weakness, a sign of artificiality, to hold in one’s hands the evidence of careful study. We have at least to pretend to spontaneity. The form is thus sacrificed, but the appearance of sincerity is saved. But with the French the form counts for much. Out comes the written document, and only its forceful delivery preserves for it its effect of directness.

But M. Briand is not one of those French orators who not only rehearse but write their speeches. On the contrary, his efforts are nearly always impromptu. This is essentially characteristic of the man. He is the improviser par excellence. He is an amazing virtuoso. In France they say that he ‘plays the violoncello.’ He plays it without the music before him. He plays it precisely as the occasion suggests. He would, perhaps, be singularly embarrassed were he called upon to play a set piece. He loves to embroider, to compose as he goes along, to await the inspiration of the moment and the call of circumstance. This is true of his speeches — but it is also true, in a larger sense, of his politics.

It may indeed be taken as a parable and illustration of the man — this habit of his to search in his audience the words, the ideas, which he utters. There are times when one might pardonably suppose M. Briand to be tired, indifferent; not to put too fine a point upon it — lazy. But this impression is altogether wrong. M. Briand is like Mr. Lloyd George inasmuch as he relies largely on his intuition, his immediate judgments, his ever-ready resources. He comes into the Chamber apparently without anything particular to say. He reads an official statement in a dull voice. He seems to be bored, and so does the Chamber. There is an atmosphere of hostility. One wonders what will be his fate.

And then, discarding the official statement, without notes, without (so far as one knows) any preparation, he begins one of his wonderful discourses. At first he feels his way cautiously. His voice takes on a new animation. There is an interruption. Somebody in the Chamber reveals the ground of antagonism. This is what M. Briand is waiting for. He applies himself to that point; he develops his theme. He vanquishes this particular opposition, only, perhaps, to arouse opposition from the other side of the house. This gives him a fresh start. He seems to seek to penetrate the minds of his opponents in order to demolish their objections. Now he pits the Right against the Left, and now he rouses the Left to enthusiasm. It is the most beautiful balancing of views it is possible to conceive.

Speeches, it is sometimes said, never change a vote in parliamentary assemblies. This may be true of parliaments like the British, where two, or, at the most, three parties sit on their benches with their minds made up, ready to obey their party whip. But it is not true of M. Briand in the French Parliament, where there are many groups and where the possibilities of combination are as numerous as the combinations of a pack of cards. He knows, as few men know, how to shuffle them — how to lead this card and then that. In his way he is certainly the most masterly parliamentarian who has ever been known in France. If proof were necessary, it would be found in the fact that seven times has he been called upon to govern; and this year, in spite of his reputation of belonging to the Left, he has performed the extraordinary feat of governing largely with the support of the Right. For that matter, he belongs, in the formal sense, neither to the Right nor to the Left. He has no party. He has, strictly speaking, no following. He remains, when he is not in office, alone and apart. Well does he know that, when the situation becomes unmanageable, when the Parliamentary team is difficult to drive, his day will again come.

Most of the French politicians — M. Poincaré and M. Viviani are notable instances — combine their rôle of politician with the rôle of journalist, and, when they are not responsible for the government, become the most powerful critics of the government in the press. Such has been the life of M. Clemenceau. Sometimes he has been premier, and at other times he has been a formidable antagonist of the premier, thundering against him, not from the tribune, but from the newspaper that he directed. Now, although M. Briand, like most other French politicians, began his career as journalist, he never takes up the pen in the intervals of office. He does hardly any lobbying; he rarely commits himself in any way. He sits silent until his hour shall again strike. Always is he something of an enigma. Always does he allow the Left to suppose he is their man, and the Right to believe that he is not against them. In the clash and confusion of rival ambitions, it is Briand, the man who makes no useless efforts, the man who knows how to keep a still tongue although he possesses a winning tongue, who is chosen. The speeches that he makes when he is assailed, and the position has become difficult, are the most persuasive speeches that may be heard; but when I read them at length the next day, I generally find that they are full of repetitions and even of contradictions. That is because he addresses himself, now to this side, then to that side. To know the true Briand, it is not sufficient to hear of to read his speeches. One has to remember whom he is addressing, and what is his immediate purpose. One has to be able to distinguish between what is meant for one party, what for another party; what is meant for France and what is meant for Germany; what is meant for England and what is meant for other countries.

I trust that this portrait does not suggest a mere opportunist, in the worst sense of the term. M. Briand certainly is an opportunist, in that he makes use of the varying views of his auditors, in that he stresses now one point and then another point. It was M. Briand who spoke of the occupation of the Ruhr, and it was M. Briand who condemned such a policy as inept. The occasion has always to be considered. But he is an opportunist only as a sailor is an opportunist. When the wind blows from the west, he must spread his sails accordingly; but when the wind veers to the north, he must trim his sails anew. But the sailor knows where he is going and keeps his course. M. Briand has a policy, and he sticks to his policy in spite of apparent and momentary contradictions. He has to reconcile many opinions, and he has to bring the Ship of State safely toward the land that he sees ahead.

There are, of course, different kinds of opportunists, and to use the word without discrimination as a term of opprobrium is altogether wrong. In my opinion, for example, Mr. Lloyd George, who is undoubtedly the greatest opportunist of our century, has, in spite of all kinds of concessions, all kinds of seeming stultifications of his judgment, kept along exactly the same path in international affairs that he indicated to me and to others in March, 1919. When he has seen rocks in the way, he has gone round them. It is so with M. Briand, whose points of resemblance with him could be multiplied. Perhaps it is only the fool who steers straight ahead. One of the chief grievances of a certain section of French politicians is that M. Briand, in calling up Class 19 for the occupation of the Ruhr, did so to discredit that policy and to make its repetition impossible. As to this I will express no opinion; but it will readily be conceived that a politician may appear to do the opposite of that which he intends to do. M. Briand is not a native of Brittany for nothing. It is from Brittany that France recruits most of her sailors. M. Briand is an expert sailor.

The truth is that M. Briand is essentially a man of liberal views. I do not purpose either to defend or to attack him: I wish merely wish to state the facts as I see them; and it is in this spirit that I record my impression, which is corroborated by conversations of a more or less private character that have come to me from friends — conversations in which he has expressed himself with surprising moderation. He is far from being the implacable taskmaster of Germany that he has been represented to be on account of certain episodes. No one knows better than does M. Briand the true need of France — the need of a policy that will reconcile old enemies and establish some measure of economic coöperation in Europe. No one realizes more the need for a reduction of armaments, which is possible only if better relations exist in Europe.

France at this moment has an army that is big enough to conquer the Continent. France is not, strictly speaking, obliged to take heed of the opinion of anyone. She can adopt any coercive methods she pleases, and there is no country that can effectively say her nay. But that would be a fatal course. Not only would it be folly to fly in the face of the world’s opinion, but France would certainly not obtain any satisfaction in the shape of additional reparations. The army, whether it is put at 800,000men or at 700,000, is a tremendous burden for a country in economic difficulties, and all sensible men must desire its reduction. It is a burden on the finances of the country, but it is also a burden on the individual Frenchman, who has to spend what should be the most vital preparatory years of his life in idleness and the demoralizing milieu of the barracks. There are those who urge, with justice, that, in the economic struggle, Germany will enjoy a great advantage over France by reason of the fact that she is compelled to keep her army at a negligible number, while France has to support a huge body of non-producers. How could any sane person wish to maintain the army at anything like its present level?

But, on the other hand, so long as national safety is secured, no matter what sacrifice must be made, no matter what handicap must be borne, M. Briand, I believe, is all in favor of making such amicable arrangements with Germany as will enable France to forget this terrible preoccupation of her security. Doubtless he, like all other French statesmen, would prefer that America and England, as promised at the Peace Conference, should come into a tripartite military pact. But he is not, as I understand, an advocate of what amounts to perpetual occupation, or of detachment of the Rhineland from the Reich, as are M. Poincaré, M. Tardieu, and M. Maurice Barrès. The most significant thing that was done under his ministry was the signing of the Loucheur-Rathenau accord, which envisages the collaboration of France and Germany, which (provided Germany remains a non-militaristic republic) presages some sort of friendship between the two countries that, in spite of their hereditary hatreds, intensified since the Armistice, have to live side by side. They can be blood-foes with the certainty of another war, or they can compose their age-long differences. There is no middle course.

IV

This brings me to M. Louis Loucheur — easily, in my opinion, the most remarkable figure in French political life. I said just now that there were no new men. I must modify that statement. M. Loucheur is a new man. He has new methods. He is not a politician, although he is in politics. He is the business man. In France the politicians have become what might, not disrespectfully, be called an ‘old gang.’ M. Loucheur was not even a deputy when he became minister. He brings a fresh mind to the public problems. He has no prejudices, no traditions, no long training along political lines. He is accustomed to see things as they are. He does not idealize them; he is not a sentimentalist, dealing in abstractions, hypnotized by catch-phrases, as are politicians generally. For me he represents an immense force. He towers over all the rest.

It would be foolish to prophecy, and therefore I shall not assert dogmatically that M. Loucheur will, for the next ten — if not twenty — years, be the real power behind French politics. All I will venture to say is that, at the present moment, he is the man who matters most, and that he should be looked upon, not in his ministerial capacity, but as a man. That is to say, that he will probably continue to occupy a nominally subordinate post. It is extremely unlikely, in my judgment, that he will form a cabinet and put himself at the head of French politics. He is far more likely to remain in the background. But it would be folly to regard him as a supernumerary. He has brains; he has ability; he has energy; he is used to dealing in realities, and he thinks in terms of realities. I do not know whether it has been remarked how unreal politics tend to become, and in what an imaginary world politicians walk. Into this unreal world came M. Loucheur; but he was not corrupted by his environment. He had the advantage of not serving an apprenticeship to politics. He passed through none of the intermediary stages. During the war he controlled numerous companies, and is reputed to be extremely rich, to have made a vast fortune.

It was M. Clemenceau who appealed to him to lend a hand. It was felt that the practical man was the kind of man who was needed to help in the winning of the war and the elaboration of the peace. Only rarely does a non-politician, who has not been elected by the people, find himself called to take up a ministerial office; but in the case of M. Loucheur the experiment was amply justified. I am not blind to the possible disadvantages of thus bringing rich business men into the government. The door is obviously opened to certain abuses. Nor do I consider that the good business man will necessarily make a good minister. Probably the chances are that he will not. But exceptional times call for exceptional men, and M. Loucheur is unquestionably an exceptional man. Afterward, of course, his situation was regularized by his election. He has remained minister through several administrations, and in one capacity or another his services will continue to be enlisted.

It was M. Loucheur who initiated the policy of direct negotiations with Germany, and who oriented France toward the idea of reparations in kind. Had it been possible to impose upon Germany, three years ago, the essential task of repairing the ruined regions of France, ihere is little doubt that by this time France would have been largely restored; and the speedy restoration would have been worth far more than the nebulous milliards. The two countries would already have settled down on terms of decent neighborliness. Unhappily, everybody was mesmerized by the glittering promise of immense sums hitherto unheard of — sums that could be expressed only in astronomical figures. The consequences might have been foreseen — but they were not, except by the economists. The consequences are the collapse of Germany and the collapse of the treaty. Everybody now realizes that, unless something is done in time, Germany is doomed to bankruptcy. Now, Germany is necessary to Europe, just as Carthage was necessary to ancient Rome. The foolish destruction of Carthage by the Romans deprived them of a base for the Eastern Mediterranean sea-routes. It is easy to look back and make these criticisms. What is of more importance is to look forward, and to appreciate the fact that, if Germany did not exist, it would be necessary to invent her. Nothing more stupid than that policy which would erase Germany from the map of Europe could, I think, be conceived.

Presently, in view of the impending bankruptcy of Germany, it will be necessary to decide between her destruction and her salvation. Should this nation be broken up into fragments; should there be dislocation, economic anarchy, political chaos? Or should there be an abandonment of the system of coercion, of financial squeezing, and such a collaboration be substituted as would enable all countries to draw specific advantages from the continued existence of a Germany that may work with hope? This is the terrific question that must soon be answered in one sense or another. The decision will be determined by the stress that French opinion lays upon certain things. Socalled security would seem to suggest the break-up of Germany, politically and economically. This security, however, would be fallacious. In a military sense, France would undoubtedly be secure; but there are also economic considerations. One bankruptcy will entrain another, and no man can foresee the end of the happenings in Europe.

On the other hand, it is dreadfully hard to reconcile one’s self to foregoing claims that have been made and promises that have been held out. The choice is, or would appear to be, between two evils. But perhaps the second would turn out to be not an evil at all. I must content myself with posing the problem in an objective manner.

Now, the Loucheur-Rathenau accord is of tremendous import. It is pretended that it supplements, and does not supplant, the London Agreement for the payment by Germany of 132,000,000,000 gold marks, made in virtue of the treaty. In reality, however long the pretense is kept up, it must be taken as an entirely new system. The London Agreement asks for impossible sums spread over an impossible period of years, and is already breaking down, since Germany simply cannot go on meeting her obligations. The Loucheur Agreement stipulates that Germany shall pay in goods, in matériel, a limited amount for the next five years, not to the Allies in general, but to France in particular. This means that common bargaining is abandoned. It means that France, preparing for the crash, is endeavoring to secure for herself, as she has in equity an undoubted right to do, a certain portion of her credits on Germany, and is anxious at least to have the North repaired. It is possible that, when Germany ceases to pay everyone else, she will continue to pay France in kind. She can hardly do both, and it seems to me that France is contracting out of the London Agreement. France is coming to a voluntary arrangement with Germany. As France for the next five years may be paid more than is due to her under the London Agreement, she might be satisfied, and might not resort, in exasperation, to methods of coercion and of sanctions. France, be it noted, is the only country which could or would resort to serious coercion and sanctions.

This policy of M. Loucheur, then, is intensely realist, and denotes a complete change in the manner of regarding the Franco-German problem. It foreshadows a very much wider system of coöperation. If may be the turningpoint in European affairs. Its bearing upon the possibility of land-disarmament is obvious.

V

It would be foolish to be too optimistic. Not all French statesmen think on these lines. There is M. Raymond Poincaré, the ex-President of the Republic, who will, in all probability, be called at an early date to the premiership, controlling the destinies of France. I think I am betraying no secret when I say that the ultimate policy of M. Poincaré is to move toward the same system of collaboration with Germany. But he reserves that policy for the future. For the present, to judge him by his writing, — and he is the most prolific journalist in France, contributing regularly to the Revue des Deux Mondes, the Temps, and the Matin, — he believes in turning the screw on Germany as tightly as it may be turned. He was thrust aside by M. Clemenceau in the peacemaking. Although President, he was reduced to silence. He had no effective way of protesting, but he has put on record, in a memorandum addressed to M. Clemenceau, his strong opinion that the limitation of the period of occupation of Germany to fifteen years was disastrous for France. He would have the occupation extended to such time as it will take Germany to fulfill all the monetary obligations of the treaty — which, being interpreted, means forever.

M. Tardieu, the chief assistant of M. Clemenceau, argues that this right is actually conferred by the treaty itself; but M. Tardieu’s arguments will not bear examination.

M. Poincaré, in addition, has always shown himself to be one of those ardent, patriotic Frenchmen who believe that the contemporaneous existence of a strong Germany and a prosperous, secure France is impossible. After he retired from the Presidency, he was made Chairman of the Reparations Commission. He resigned because the Reparations Commission showed a tendency to reduce the German debt to more manageable proportions. At each successive abandonment of some French right, he has fulminated against the Premier in office. One can only suppose that, when he becomes Premier himself, he will carry out his policy of no concessions. No concessions, now that the original demands are shown to be, however justified, inexecutable, spells the final ruin of Germany, and, as most people think, the greater embarrassment of France. It is perhaps wrong to suppose that a statesman in office will behave as a statesman out of office writes. He is bound to modify his conceptions in accordance with changing circumstances and proved facts. Nevertheless, one must take M. Poincaré to be what he paints himself to be.

I should certainly describe him as the most formidable of the politicians proper in France. He has a tremendous force. He has been peculiarly consistent in his attitude toward Germany, from the days when he was raised, as a bon Lorrain, to the Presidency in the year before the war. His prestige is enormous. There are living at this moment no fewer than four former Presidents of the Republic. As the term of office is seven years, this is a somewhat remarkable fact. But whoever hears of Émile Loubet, or of Armand Fallières? They have gone to trim their vines or to live quietly in complete obscurity. After their occupation of the Élysée, there was no place for them in public life. M. Deschanel, it is true, is a member of the Senate, but he is only nominally in polilics. M. Poincaré is made in another mould. Still comparatively young, with an alert mind, full of ambition unsatiated, believing that he is the strong man that his country needs, he declines to be buried alive, and is taking a notable revenge for his impotence during the latter years at the Élysée. He is the indefatigable critic.

VI

I regret that my space will not permit me to treat of other French politicians so fully, but these men are, after all, the really representative men of French politics. M. René Viviani is a highly successful lawyer, gifted with the most amazing flow of language that it has ever been my lot to listen to. The words simply pour out. He has been Premier, and during the early part of the war performed good service. He has been sent to America on missions not clearly defined — the vague kind of mission that is meant to awaken sympathy, and, indeed, does so. It was hoped that he might influence Washington with regard to the cancellation of debts; but as it was afterward found an inopportune moment to broach this delicate subject, he came out with a denunciation of those who made such proposals, on the ground that Germany might also ask for the cancellation of her debts.

M. Barthou is an impetuous patriot, a somewhat fiery man, conspicuous as a supporter of the Three Years’ Military Service Law. He has written, with rather more intimacy than some of us think justifiable, of the private affairs of Sainte-Beuve and Victor Hugo.

My own favorite French statesman — a man whom I consider to be the finest, the noblest, of our time — is M. Léon Bourgeois, the colleague of M. Viviani on the French delegation to the League of Nations. His has been a wellfilled life, singularly free from intrigue, singularly free from ambition (he might have aspired to any post, including the Presidency), devoted solely to the furtherance of the idea of the League. Before Mr. Wilson had ever made the suggestion of such an organization, he was already old in its service. He took the leading part in the deliberations of The Hague. I know him well and am happy to pay a tribute to his kindliness, his simplicity, his unselfishness, and his generous thought for humanity. There are not many Bourgeois in the world, so hard-working, so self-sacrificing, so single-minded.

Among the younger men, M. André Tardieu is undoubtedly the ablest, with the best-stored mind. He is inclined to a sort of priggishness, of superiority, that makes him unpopular, but he will probably come into his own again.

There are two officials who will, unless something unexpected happens, play extremely important parts, whether at Washington or at Paris.

Of M. Jules Jusserand it is necessary to say only that he is respected as the most adequate ambassador that France possesses. He is too well known in America to need my eulogy. England has long envied America his possession. He is tactful, active, and has a unique knowledge — an altogether indispensable man. He occupies far too strong a position ever to be displaced. If he is left in charge of part of the proceedings at Washington, France will be represented by a judicious, sagacious, likable man, not likely to make any mistake from the diplomatic standpoint.

At the head of the permanent staff at the Quai d’Orsay is Philippe Berthelot. Berthelot has a memory that is an encyclopædia of foreign affairs. There are archives at the Quai d’Orsay, but the real archives are under the cranium of Philippe Berthelot. In France ministries change frequently. Often no record — or an insufficient record—is kept of negotiations engaged in by the predecessors of the ministries in power. But Philippe Berthelot knows. He can supply the information. He is sometimes the only man who can supply it. It may be urged that it is bad business to give one man the extraordinary power that is thus given to M. Berthelot; but he is sound and shrewd, and whenever he is directly responsible for policy, his judgments are excellent. He is the son of the famous chemist who instituted and developed research work in the properties of coal. M. Berthelot in his early days explored and studied China, and is an authority on Asiatic matters. Ministers may come and ministers may go, but Philippe Berthelot remains.