The meetings took place around a large oval table in Colonel House’s comfortable salon at the Crillon. House stagemanaged the proceedings with his usual selfeffacing hospitality. Wilson and House represented the United States. Cecil and rugged General Smuts — who spoke from experience, nourished not only from books, but from the rude personal vicissitudes of a life studded with victories and defeats in war and in politics — represented the British Empire. Longwinded Léon Bourgeois and a fellow international lawyer represented France, Orlando and a colleague from the Italian Senate, Italy. The Japanese had two and the Belgians, Czechoslovaks, Chinese, Portuguese, Serbians and Brazilians one member each.
The committeemen were interested and cooperative. The work, based on a draft drawn up by British and American experts who had tried to cull the best out of Smuts’ and Cecil’s and Wilson’s plans, proceeded so smoothly that at the end of ten meetings the document was ready to be presented to the plenary assembly.
The American secretaries and attendant specialists noted with pleasure the skill and tact with which their President dealt with thorny problems and with some of the thorny characters at the committee table. On February 7 House noted, after a particularly successful session: “Many important articles adopted. Practically everything originates from our end of the table, that is with Lord Rob’t Cecil and the Pres, and I acting as adviser. The P. excels in such work. He seems to like it and his short talks in explanation of his views are admirable. I have never known anyone to do such work so well.”
As the drafting progressed the idea of the covenant more and more assumed a mystical significance to Woodrow Wilson: through all the deep tunnels of his memory the word resounded. It carried him back to the religious dedication of his boyhood, through his father’s sacred stories of the Scots Covenanters who were their forebears, to the Old Testament pact between Almighty God and His chosen people. It irked him that there were people in the world who did not appreciate the divine appointment of his dedication to the great task.
The French press, which most of the Americans scorned as flippant and venal, was shifting from the reverential treatment accorded “Meester Veelson” during his first days in Paris. Squibs and cartoons were appearing. Wilson’s patience broke down completely when a leading article that he considered scurrilous appeared in the respectable Figaro.
“President Wilson,” the article read, “has lightly assumed a responsibility such as few men have ever borne. Success in his idealistic efforts will undoubtedly place him among the greatest characters of history. But let us admit frankly that if he should fail, he would plunge the world into a chaos of which Russian Bolshevism is but the feeble image; and his responsibility before the conscience of the world would be heavier than any simple mortal could support.”
In theory Wilson was all for freedom of the press but this was going too far. Although the signature was “Capus,” he suspected that the voice was the voice of Clemenceau. Edith Wilson led the outraged chorus in the little family party at the Hôtel de Mûrat. The President sent Grayson running to Ray Baker to instruct him to release a story that if the propaganda against the assembled governments were not curbed immediately President Wilson would propose moving the conference to a neutral city. On his way Grayson confided in House.
House expostulated. “To my mind it was a stupid blunder,” the colonel noted angrily in his diary. Although Mandel refused to allow his newspapers to print any report of President Wilson’s threat, he did tone down, for a while, the gibes of the Paris press.
On the surface everything was splendor and serenity at the plenary session of the Peace Conference which took place on Valentine’s Day in the Salon de l’Orloge. The fact that the President was leaving that night for Brest in order to reach Washington in time for the closing of the Sixty-fifth Congress added to the air of drama. Monsieur Clemenceau opened the meeting and immediately gave President Wilson the floor. Wilson seemed to his friends to be in unusually fine form when he reported, his fine voice thrilling with pride, the unanimous agreement of the committee representing fourteen nations on the text he was about to read.
With careful enunciation he read the preamble:
“In order to secure international peace and security by the acceptance of obligations not to resort to the use of armed force, by the prescription of open, just and honorable relations between nations, by the firm establishment of the understandings of international law as the actual rule of conduct among governments, and by the maintenance of justice and a scrupulous respect for all treaty obligations in the dealings of organized peoples with one another, and in order to promote international cooperation, the Powers signatory to this Covenant adopt this constitution of the League of Nations.”
He went on to read the twentytwo articles, establishing an executive council in which the United States, Great Britain, France, Italy and Japan should have the leadership, a body of delegates of the lesser states, a secretariat, the machinery for consultation and arbitration … The High Contracting Parties agreed “to respect and preserve … the territorial integrity and existing political independence” of all member states … An international court of justice, reduction of armaments. Sanctions against transgressors, the abrogation of all treaties inconsistent with the covenant …
The words “High Contracting Parties” resounded like a refrain from article to article. To many of the men listening in the airless hall it seemed the consummation of twentyfive years of effort to secure a world polity. The President’s speech was received with profound emotion. Tears were streaming down House’s face when he shook the President’s hand in the ovation that followed.
Although delegates’ wives were categorically excluded, Edith Wilson had induced Clemenceau to get her and Cary Grayson smuggled in. They sat on stiff chairs in a tiny alcove behind a red brocaded curtain.
“It was a great moment in history and as he stood there — slender, calm and powerful in his argument — I seemed to see the people of all depressed countries — men and women and little children crowding round and waiting upon his words.”
The covenant was unanimously accepted and Edith Wilson had the pleasure, peering through a crack in the curtains, of seeing the delegates crowding around to press her husband’s hand. The Tiger had been insistent that she should not let herself be seen or else “he’d have all the other wives on his neck.” The hall cleared fast. When the last coattail had disappeared out of the door Edith Wilson and Cary Grayson tiptoed out of their hiding place. The presidential limousine was waiting for them in the courtyard below. Woodrow Wilson took off his silk hat and leaned back against the cushions. She asked him if he were tired. “Yes I suppose I am, but how little one man means when such vital things are at stake.”
The President had a last conference with House before setting off for the train. “I outlined my plan of procedure during his absence,” noted the colonel. “I told him I thought we could button up everything during the next four weeks. He seemed startled and even alarmed by the statement. I therefore explained that my plan was not to actually bring these matters to a final conclusion but to have them ready for him to do so when he returned. This pleased him.” House drove with the Wilsons to the station.
There were the usual palms and flags and red carpets, President and Madame Poincaré, Clemenceau patient behind his mustaches, the Cabinet in frock coats, ambassadors, attachés. Just before the President stepped on the train he sought out his confidential colonel, who as usual was allowing himself to melt into the background. He was seen to place his hand on House’s shoulders and whisper, “Heavy work before you, House.” “He looked happy,” wrote House, “as well indeed he should.”