IRREVERENT INTERVIEWS AND OTHER IRRELEVANCESWITH LORD BALFOUR AT THE WASHINGTON CONFERENCE
Hereceived me with exquisite courtesy, waved me into a chair, sank into another himself, and sat, with folded hands and an expression compounded of saintly refinement and dignified composure, regarding me gravely through limpid, untroubled eyes, protected from the tarnishing realities of the world by horn-rimmed spectacles. His silky, white hair gleamed softly in the half-light. His moustache reposed over a mouth touched with wistful sadness, but serene and courageous. Rarely have I seen anything more placid and self-possessed. But he had his small irritations. I was one of them.
“Yes,” he began, with the faintest air of hesitation, “yes. It’s good of you to have come—er. Er—most obliging, I’m sure. It’s a pity they didn’t tell me about it. You see, I’d already arranged.... Yes—(really troubled)—most unfortunate! (Brightening.) We might walk a little way together. (Troubled again.) But perhaps that wouldn’t suit you—no. It would? That’s very lucky. Shall we go now?... They’ll give me a hat, I suppose?...”
We found ourselves walking down a prodigiousstaircase, and I heard him say, “Extraordinary buildings these American hotels! I always wonder on what principle they’re constructed. The groining of the roof, for instance....” Well, to be truthful, I’m not really sure that he said “groining,” for my mind (I confess it with shame) was wandering speculatively among the mysterious “them” by whom all great men are surrounded. “They” are always lurking in the background. “They” do all the interesting things; but when some really unpleasant job comes along “they” always work it off on “him.” You can picture “them” planning out the day. “Now,” they say, “there’s your speech on the Irish question, your report for the League of Nations, the article you promised to write for theHibbert Journal, new socks and ties, another hat, and that awful check waistcoat you bought to be exchanged for something quieter. We’ll do all that. Then there’s the christening of the Infant Princess Vodkha, and General Thing’s funeral. You’d better take those. They’re very important. Oh, and there’s the Pilgrims’ dinner in the evening. You can go to that, too. Mind you say nothing in your speech that we shall be sorry for afterwards.” I should like to be one of “them,” and feel that I was really pulling my weight in the country.
That, roughly, was the train of my thoughts,when I remembered that an interviewer’s business is to interview and not to acquiesce in excursions into the by-paths of architecture. “They” would never allow that.
“—and I’ve wondered sometimes,” he was saying, “whether the cantilever had anything to do with it. But—but, no doubt, you can tell me that.”
“I can,” I said, “but it would take too long to explain. Besides, the public expects me to put my few moments with you to a better purpose than discussing mechanics. The world is expecting a new era to date from the Washington Conference; and, as the chief British delegate——”
“The trouble with the world,” he replied, “is that it is perpetually expecting the millennium. They expected it after the Congress of Berlin. They expected it to emerge from the Hague Peace Conference, and they got the Great War! They expected a new Heaven and a new Earth out of the Peace Treaty; they got the League of Nations, which was an enormous step forward. And because the League hasn’t revolutionised humanity, because in the space of two years it hasn’t yet effectively counter-checked all the instincts and passions which man has inherited from the anthropoid ape, they brand it as a failure—or, at best, a half success—and turn their eyes to Washington; and if we should notbe able (and who can predict that we shall be able?) to realise all the passionate hopes and aspirations in their hearts, they’ll turn away from our work in despair (however useful and practical it may be), and they’ll go on staring into the future, straining their sight in search of changes, that, by their very nature, are not to be perceived; and, because they cannot watch a kind of sensational picture-drama of evolution unfolding before their eyes, they will condemn each progressive step as a futility.”
“Now, in this particular case,” I began, for he had paused dreamily.
“I have always had warm feelings for America,” he continued, inconsequently as it seemed; “indeed, some of my earliest public speeches were devoted—Yes? Were you about to say anything?—were devoted to pleading for what one might call a Pax Anglo-Americana, as something wider than the Pax Britannica, and as a step towards—a step towards some better understanding between the various states of the world.”
I sought to pin him down. “And is that your expectation of the outcome of this Conference?”
“I see no reason why one should not hope, and ... and, indeed, there seems to me every reason for believing, that our ... our discussions and conversations will reveal sufficient of our respective points of view to serve as a basis forfuture negotiations, and possibly to give a broad indication of the lines upon which a general agreement might ultimately be reached.”
I changed front swiftly. “You were in the United States in 1917?”
“In 1917, yes.”
“Do you notice many changes?”
“I can’t help feeling that there is a certain popular aridity which, I should have said, was conspicuously absent on the occasion of my last visit. Naturally, during a war, public opinion tends to be exuberant and ... and, indeed, at times fluid——”
“Then you think the political atmosphere of America has become noticeably drier?”
“I think you must not ask me to discuss the politics of a friendly Power within ... within the confines of that Power. Or, indeed, you may ask, of course, but I feel it would be improper to answer.”
I flung myself upon him from another angle.
“People in England cannot help wondering what effect Mr. Hara’s assassination will have on the Conference.”
“I have always thought,” he replied, after a pause, “that in a society so constituted as ours, it is impossible that such an incident—or, or, indeed, any incident—should be devoid of effect and significance.”
“It might prejudice the issue?”
“Conceivably. Or, on the other hand, in certain circumstances, by drawing attention to what is called the War Party in Japan—if such a party exists, as to which I say nothing—it might, in the long run, exercise quite the opposite influence.”
I tried a more direct approach. “Might I ask what will be the policy of the British Delegation?”
“Certainly. The policy of the British Delegation, subject to the approval of His Majesty’s Government, will be that decided upon, after due deliberation, by the Chief Delegate in consultation with his colleagues.”
We walked on a few yards in silence—I struggling to frame a question that he could not evade, he with his eyes on the horizon and his thoughts (I imagine) in another planet. To relieve my evident distress, he said at last, “Would you like me to say anything further?”
I threw diplomacy to the winds and faced him with savage determination. I said to myself that I would not be trifled with.
“Sir,” I cried, “we have talked for half an hour. I think I know less of your thoughts on this subject now than before we began. In the name of the publicity for which I have heard you appeal in the League of Nations, say somethingspecific of your hopes and fears, something to which posterity may point a finger, saying, ‘Here was a statesman with vision. Heknew.’”
“That,” he replied with gentle gravity, “is a little difficult. Er—as ... as you know, I am always unwilling to assume therôleof prophet. Indeed, I am not prepared to say that in the scheme of things as I understand it—and using ... using the word in the sense that is customary to me—that such a thing as a prophecy has any existence at all. But I feel—yes, I feel the necessity which you have urged upon me with—er—with—er ... so eloquently; and I am above all things—and at all times—desirous of affording such proper information as the public ought to receive, upon such a topic as our present Conference, to those whose ... whose work it is to—to disseminate—er—such information. I see no harm, therefore, in acceding to your request, at the same time making it clear that, since these issues are momentous and easily imperilled, you must observe the ... the greatest discretion in any use—er—in any use to which you may put my words.”
Overpowered at the apparent success of my appeal to his better feelings, I could only bow my thanks. The veteran statesman veiled his eyes with their tired lids and seemed to ponder.
“Well,” he said at last, “subject to what Ihave already stated, I see no reason why I should not say that the Outlook is not ... is not as bad as it might be. And now—yes, this is where I must leave you. It has been a great pleasure to speak so frankly; and I know you will be discreet. Good-bye.”
And then he left me and strolled on his way with serene detachment. But whether the “Outlook” to which he referred was the paper of that name, or the prospect before the Washington Conference, those who have read so far are as well able to judge as I.