

Paris, Monday

The ceremony of signing the Peace Pact was “shot,” if that is the right technical “movie” expression, rather than “performed,” at the Quai d’Orsay this afternoon. One had all the time that curious impression of being in two worlds at once, almost of unreality, which one has in the wings of a theatre. One-half of the famous Clock Saloon, the half that will be seen on the films, was all that was dignified and decent, resembling with its row of posing statesmen and heavy, ugly Second Empire decoration one of those Victorian steel engravings of historic scenes that still adorn the walls of Liberal clubs; the other half was a wild, almost terrifying chaos of wires and cables and instruments of all kinds dominated by huge black-painted projectors on high tripods that reminded one of the original illustrations to Wells’s “War of the Worlds.” The sense of being behind the scenes at a theatre was heightened by the bustling feverishness of the kinema stage managers, and as we are in Paris, where it is the rule in theatres, the presence in his glittering brass helmet and calm indifference, of a pompier (fireman).

Almost at three o’clock to the second the delegates, escorted each in turn by a Swiss Guard armed with a formidable mediaeval halberd, began to enter. A few minutes later all were in their places, M. Briand in the centre, with, on his right hand, Mr. Kellogg and the British Empire phalanx, and on his left Herr Stresemann, the Italian Ambassador, the representative of Japan, and the two faithful allies of France represented by M. Zaleski and Dr. Benes. Apart from Lord Cushendun’s gigantic stature, which in itself was a note of emphasis, the British Empire seemed to overweigh the assembly. The French group seemed similarly overweighted. Conspicuous in the front rank of a small group of spectators, seated under the shadow of the projector tripods, was M. Poincaré.

A flood of arc lights

Suddenly the dim, shaded room, with its heavy curtains and dark hangings and its grave, seated occupants, sprang into a blinding vividness. All that one missed were the three solemn knacks that herald a similar but less startling effect at a theatre. Light, blinding, overwhelming light, poured in through all the windows from vast searchlights hitherto unnoticed on the terrace outside. A more golden, more diffused light streamed from the tripod “inhabitants of Mars” at the other end of the room. Light in vivid rays from the little spotlights searched, found, and filmed the features of each of the delegates. A high scream of electric arcs rang through one’s head, and the pungent ozone of a power station pervaded the atmosphere.

Kinema machines purred, cameras clicked, and then again, suddenly, we were plunged into semi-darkness. A minute spotlight directed from between the chubby legs of a sprawling marble cupid on the mantelpiece picked out the heavy subtle features of M. Briand. The familiar deep voice began to sound through the attentive room. It was a lone speech, monotonously recited, and not a very good speech. It was a speech read from a manuscript, a sign that to-day words had to be carefully chosen and weighed before utterance. The great French orator is at his ease and at his best only in improvisations. His performance to-day evidently bored him. The deep musical voice ceased, the spotlight shifted to the pale face of M. Camerlynck, the famous conference translator, and the room rang once more with his strangely disagreeable accent and his almost unintelligible English, for M. Camerlynck, for all his fame, is not a first-rate translator. There are several far better, though less famous, at Geneva.

Peace pen flows badly

The spotlight went out. With a click the light flood was turned on. Slowly Herr Stresemann rose from his seat and walked to the little table set in the midst for the signatures. One noticed his face, head, and neck glittering with perspiration, a symptom of physical pain. Herr Stresemann is suffering more than most people know, and has come to Paris accompanied not only by a doctor but by nurses. There was a small flutter of gloved applause. As the German Minister affixed his signature it was observed that the golden fountain pen of peace engraved with the olive branch and motto “ Si vis pacem para pacem” was not working well. Mr. Kellogg, who followed, had to shake it vigorously—an omen perhaps. The rest dipped it boldly into the Treaty of Versailles inkpot. Lord Cushendun affixed two signatures, one for Great Britain, another for India, and under them came the signatures in turn of the five Dominions, ending with that of President Cosgrave. The procession to the table was wound up by Dr. Genes. The lights were extinguished. Informally the delegates trooped out, and the strange unprecedented ceremony, marked by no incident or demonstration, was over. An event of almost unique historic importance had been successfully “shot.”

Long live Germany!

As Herr Stresemann passed after this afternoon’s ceremony from the Quai d’Orsay to the German Embassy he was greeted by the enormous crowds deeply massed along the quays and around the Chamber of Deputies with a continuous roar of “Vive Stresemann,” “Viva l’Allemagne,” and “Viva la Paix.” It is hard to resist the feeling that something has changed or is in process of changing when a shout goes up from the throats of a Paris crowd of “Long live Germany.” But the people are not the politicians, a truism that is always peculiarly true in France.

All such conferences hitherto, from that of Berlin in the seventies to that of Locarno, or even to sittings of the League Council, have something secret, almost furtive, about them. The diplomats and their attendant journalists have met in a sort of intimacy for the making of pacts or the signing of treaties. Ferrero has said that in the soul of diplomats and Foreign Ministers is to be found the last survival of the spirit of Monarchist absolutism. In the attendant journalists there is often too manifest the spirit of the courtier or even the lackey.



This afternoon there were occasional cries of anger from the ranks of the pressmen, who for the most part could see nothing, hear nothing, for the kinema and the broadcasting apparatus had usurped their place. Save for the one speech made rather to be read than heard the statesmen had abandoned their favourite recourse to rhetoric. For the first time a diplomatic piece was being played not for a few score journalists but for the eyes and ears of hundreds of millions of ordinary folk throughout the world. To-day’s signature marked not merely the abdication of the old diplomacy, always dependent implicitly and avowedly on the ultima ratio regum, it symbolised in many ways a coming change of function for the press reporter.

The Kellogg-Briand pact: world treaty to outlaw war – archive, 1928 Read more

Stresemann and Poincaré

This forenoon Herr Stresemann was closeted for an hour and a half with M. Poincaré. Incredible as it may appear, M. Poincaré can become on occasion personally very charming. His greeting was all that could be desired. Otherwise the interview was a complete setback. To Herr Stresemann, who urged the evacuation of the Rhineland, he put the question, What have you to offer? As the answer was and could only in effect be “Nothing,” M. Poincaré made it unmistakably clear that there is no solution but a European settlement linking debts and reparations, and as the United States is not yet ripe for conference on such a subject Germany must be content with the status quo.

Herr Stresemann drove through the streets to-day in a closed carriage. On his way from the station yesterday there were several isolated outbursts of hostile whistling. For some purpose of mischief known only to itself or Moscow, this morning’ s Communist “Humanite,” describing the Peace Pact as a treaty of war against Russia, called upon the workers to make hostile demonstrations in the street. At the same time the Communist machine was set to work in the poorer quarters of the town and in the factories. Up to the time of telegraphing many scores of arrests have been made. How absurd all this is is shown by the flying of the Russian Red flag along with all the others on the Quai d’Orsay and by the invitation about to be sent to Russia which Moscow will pretty certainly accept.

