Читать книгу In the Margin of History - L. B. Namier - Страница 6

There would be little to say about “Diplomacy, Secret and Open,” were it not for the nonsense which is talked about it. Diplomacy is “the organized system of negotiations between sovereign States,” and in its nature and methods does not differ essentially from other kinds of negotiations. As Lord Hervey wrote, two centuries ago, the transactions between men, great and small, are

still the same game, and played with the same cards, the disparity in the skill of gamesters in each equally great . . . the only difference is their playing more or less deep, whilst the cutting and shuffling, the dealing and the playing, is still the same whether the stakes be halfpence or millions.

But games are not played with open cards, and negotiations, whether between States, business firms or individuals, can seldom, if ever, be conducted in public.

At the root of most of the nonsense talked about secret diplomacy lies confusion between aims and methods, between “policy” and “negotiations.” The vital distinction between the two is stressed by Mr. Harold Nicolson, one of the most articulate experts and best-informed writers on diplomacy. “Policy should be subjected to democratic control: the execution of that policy should be left to trained experts.” “Policy should never be, and need never be, secret”; but the conduct of negotiations must be confidential. In other words, what the public has a right to know is the general trend of national policy and any binding commitments incurred in its name; while the decision as to the amount of information to be given out about negotiations, and the choice of time for doing so, must be left to those entrusted with their conduct.

Publicity destroys the freedom of negotiations. Every word said in public is apt to commit the negotiator. This makes him over-cautious and leaves little scope for tentative proposals. Could even a non-political treaty—e.g. a commercial agreement—be discussed in public? At every turn “vested interests” would be created which would hamper the further course of the negotiations. Still worse where frontiers are concerned: that between the Irish Free State and Ulster admits of obvious improvements; but all thought of such amendments, which could have been made on a basis of give and take, had to be dropped because of the vested interests created by the treaty once it was published. Those included in the State in which they wish to be, even if less numerous, have a moral superiority in asserting the status quo over those who would profit by a change.

In fact, premature publication, or “exposure,” is a well-known method of interfering with negotiations. When in the spring of 1919 an inter-Allied Committee suggested a frontier which would have satisfied very nearly the maximum of Polish territorial claims against Germany, their secret report speedily found its way into the French Press, it being hoped by those who committed the indiscretion that the intense anti-German feeling in Allied countries would henceforth preclude any material change in the proposed frontier. There was a great deal to be said for that frontier which gave Danzig to the Poles, but not for the attempt to put pressure on what ought to have been a quasi-judicial body, considering territorial claims in the light of certain acknowledged principles; and the attempts of decent negotiators to find just solutions are seldom helped by public discussion and agitation. The fruit will be poor if prematurely plucked by incompetent and irresponsible hands, and orchards therefore require a reasonable measure of protection and seclusion.

There is a further, very important, reason why diplomatic negotiations must be conducted in secret. Most nations are extremely touchy. “National honour” and “national prestige” were a fetish in this country in the eighteenth century, and are still on the European Continent; and the less honour nations observe in practice, the more sensitive are they to anything which might seem to question what amount of it they possess. The British and French Governments must have repeatedly charged the Italians with breach of faith in the matter of non-intervention in Spain, even before Mussolini proudly proclaimed it to the world, and must have hinted at what everyone knew about the nationality of the pirate submarines in the Mediterranean. But any such public pronouncement originating from our side would have rendered further negotiations impossible.

Altogether, the veil thrown over a great deal of diplomatic transactions, in so far as this country is concerned, often serves the purpose of hiding from the British public the bad manners and unreasonable nature of foreign Governments; in other words, it serves the interest of peace. Otherwise damage is apt to occur. The Kruger telegram, which was a public act, is a case in point. It did serious and lasting harm to Anglo-German relations and weighed heavily with public opinion in this country. But in diplomatic intercourse with the Germans such incidents are by no means rare. What reception would the Kaiser have received from the British public in 1899 had they known that he had refused to accept the invitation of his grandmother unless the British Government first gave way to his petulant and unreasonable demands arising out of some obscure squabbles in Samoa? Again, had every step in the negotiations for a limitation of naval armaments been disclosed to the British public, Sir Edward Grey’s policy would have been fully justified in their eyes, but further talks would have become impossible.

Generally speaking, the public and the Press are much more inflammable than professional diplomats, or even Cabinet Ministers, who have to consider the consequences of “blowing off steam.” Mr. J. A. Spender, an unimpeachable witness, thus describes the position during the years preceding the Great War:

The game as played by the diplomats required secrecy, and, so long as the game went on, its dangers were limited by excluding an audience which must have taken sides. What a Foreign Secretary feared in nine cases out of ten was not the craft of his opponent but the too zealous backing of his own side, which would have cut off his retreat. Keep the public out of it, and it was a relatively safe game; let the public in, and it instantly became full of deadly peril. As a rule the public were only let in when the Foreign Secretary or his Government had decided not to retreat.

Still, those who are keenest on “open diplomacy” also favour “diplomacy by conference.” If only statesmen met and had heart-to-heart talks! Then they would see that there was something to be said on the other side, and each would find that the other is not such a bad chap after all. And if they meet and the public see them in the daily Press so nicely together, their faces wreathed in smiles, it feels that here is “open diplomacy”—not that sinister exchange of secret notes between Foreign Offices. The hearts of the public soften, and so apparently do the brains. For nothing can beat, or even equal, the secrecy of such meetings: what the two statesmen say often remains hidden from their own competent official advisers, from their colleagues in the Cabinet, and sometimes even from these two men themselves; after such a talk, each knows best what he himself has said, or what he had meant to say, or what he wishes he had said, but has only a dim and blurred recollection of what the other man said, or tried to say. Seldom has there been such a talk which, if put to the test, did not produce a crop of fatal disagreements as to what had been agreed upon; witness, e.g., the interview between Aehrental and Isvolsky at Buchlau, which led to the Bosnian crisis, the forerunner of the Great War. Even where such interviews do not result in misunderstandings, they very seldom produce positive results. It is in the interest of decent diplomacy and of international comity that every step should be carefully examined and considered, that neither side should feel that it has been “had,” or that it has unduly yielded to charm and persuasion. Surprising results or gains obtained in personal interviews can seldom be maintained afterwards; in August 1906, at Björkoe, the Kaiser obtained what he desired from the Tsar, but the Russian Foreign Office soon managed to back out of that absurd agreement. Even mutually advantageous treaties, if the product of a cordiality between statesmen which is not shared by their nations, are likely to do more harm than good. The Thoiry agreement between Briand and Stresemann is an outstanding example; they reached a complete understanding, and were both promptly disavowed by their countries.

As Mr. Nicolson says, diplomacy, to be effective, “should be a disagreeable business.” Diplomatic negotiations should be conducted with calm clearness and with hard-headed perseverance—best of all on paper; even then there is room for differences in interpretation, but infinitely less than in the case of verbal agreements. Nor is there in written negotiations the same inducement to make undue concessions. To quote Mr. Nicolson again: “There is nothing more damaging to precision in international relations than friendliness between the Contracting Parties”; the difficulties of precise negotiations in conference arise “from the more amiable qualities of the human heart,” from “consideration, affability or ordinary good manners,” and from the “human difficulty of remaining disagreeable to the same set of people, for days on stretch.”

None the less, personal contacts and conversations are at times essential, just because they offer that measure of freedom and elasticity which secrecy alone can secure; diplomatic notes have their own publicity, with posterity and history. But then personal negotiations had better not be conducted by the principals, but much rather by officials or juniors. What these suggest or listen to commits nobody; they can explore every approach and discuss all kinds of schemes. In the fifteenth century Phillippe de Commynes wrote in his “Memoirs,” when commenting on a meeting between Louis XI and Charles the Bold:

Et deux grans princes qui se vouldroient bien entreaymer ne se devroyent jamais veoir, mais envoyer bonnes gens et sages les ungs vers les autres, et ceulx-la les entretiendroient ou amanderoient les faultes.

Meetings between juniors or officials cannot produce the dilemma of their Governments having either to accept an unsatisfactory arrangement or to disavow a man who is supposed to have the power to enter binding agreements. The fatal mess of the Hoare-Laval agreement could never have arisen had the matter been transacted through ambassadors, or even through the Permanent Under-Secretary without the Minister. As Mr. Nicolson says, “the execution of policy should be left to trained experts.”

Even so, the Foreign Secretary needs to be to some extent an expert, perhaps more so than any other Cabinet Minister. The best British Foreign Secretaries by preference limited themselves to that one sphere: Castlereagh, Canning, Palmerston, Salisbury, Sir Edward Grey. It is dangerous for ordinary politicians to handle international negotiations. In the first place, their attention is too much divided between the public at home, which they are accustomed to watch, and the interests which ought to be the paramount consideration of foreign policy. Further, there is the vanity of politicians, connected with their habit of playing to the gallery. Lastly, there is the danger of their failing to make the necessary readjustments. Some succumb to the delightful atmosphere of diplomatic courtesy; accustomed for years to the rough and tumble of the House of Commons, they are apt to accept the courtesies of diplomatic life at their face value, and to mistake the form for substance. Mr. Snowden, on the other hand, very nearly produced a serious breach with the French at the Hague by treating them as he was wont to treat the “right hon. gentlemen opposite”; after the scene caused by his use of the word “grotesque,” he remarked, slightly perturbed, to one of his assistants: “But surely I have not said anything unparliamentary?”

Still, while the Foreign Secretary should understand the methods and traditions of diplomacy, he ought to be thoroughly free of foreign fancies. There is, in the first place, the question of foreign languages. No man is lightly to be chosen for the post of British Foreign Secretary who speaks any language but English; or at least, a man burdened with such accomplishments should be made to take a vow never to speak any other language. He is certain not to know every foreign language which matters; and if he is familiar only with one, he tends to develop an undue bias in favour of that particular nation. But if, worst of all, he prides himself on such knowledge, and finds pleasure in jabbering that foreign lingo, then he is lost and essential British interests are in jeopardy. Lord Salisbury knew French, but never talked anything but English to foreign statesmen or diplomats.

Lastly, a statesman dealing with international affairs should know nothing about “Teschen.” He cannot know every Teschen on the map, and if he knows one Teschen only, it will hide whole worlds from his sight; and even about the Teschen with which he happens to be acquainted, he will probably know less than his experts, and his information about it will, in most cases, be out of date. A Foreign Secretary had much better possess a knowledge of Continents pleasantly blended with an ignorance of particular foreign countries, and allow himself to be informed by his experts when occasion arises. These he must know how to choose. Judgment of men, of their character, minds, and knowledge, is an essential attribute in statesmen.

The same is true of democracies; here everything depends on the choice they make of statesmen. The essence of “democracy” is that the nation should have the power to choose and change its rulers, and that it should, at all times, enjoy full freedom of political discussion. But when Mr. Harold Nicolson says that foreign policy “should be subjected to democratic control,” he uses language which lends itself to misunderstanding and misinterpretation. It is difficult to see how policy can be democratically controlled, except through Parliament, and through the influence which the prevailing atmosphere exercises on Parliament and on the Cabinet. For what is public opinion, and how can it be ascertained? Or even could it be ascertained, its commands would mostly be vague and contradictory, and therefore impracticable. It would, e.g., direct the Government to defend the cause of righteousness and to preserve peace; to make an omelette without breaking eggs. And even the intervention of the House of Commons (apart from the influence and pressure which it potentially exercises all the time) is dangerous. For it is in its very nature fitful, and therefore irresponsible. Once more: what the public is called upon to do is to choose its rulers, and what it is entitled to know is the general trend of national policy and any binding commitments incurred in its name.

As a rule, no commitments should be incurred which are not dictated by the national interest, and seldom, if ever, should a nation be made to promise things which it would not do without the promise. In 1919 Great Britain and America offered France a joint guarantee of her eastern frontier in lieu of a virtual French annexation of the left bank of the Rhine. When America refused to honour President Wilson’s promise, Mr. Lloyd George took advantage of the clause which made the British guarantee conditional on America’s participation. This was wrong, even politically, for we could never afford to see France broken and the Germans in control of the Channel ports. Our frontier is the Rhine. We concede nothing in guaranteeing the security of France beforehand, and a good deal could have been done at that early stage to calm French apprehensions by giving them such a guarantee.

In 1914 a certain school of pacifists professed to detect the origin of the war in our entente with France and in alleged secret military and naval commitments entered into by Great Britain. In reality the war broke out over the Yugo-Slav fears of the Habsburg Monarchy and its Balkan policy; and if there was a contributory cause in Western Europe, this was to be found in the German hope that we would remain neutral—in other words, not in the existence, but in the uncertainty of our commitments to France.

Still, even whilst the foreign policy of a nation is uncertain and badly defined, contingent military and naval arrangements must be precise. Therefore, when public opinion coloured by sentimental pacifism, as ours was before 1914 and before 1936, is timid and unwilling to face realities, military and naval agreements must necessarily exceed the diplomatic commitments. A modern war cannot be undertaken like a picnic; you do not drive out in your car till you find a nice spot where you stop and have lunch. Unless precise arrangements for common action are made beforehand, chaos ensues, followed by defeat, for which the service men are made to bear the blame. In 1914 our fleet was concentrated in the North Sea, and the French in the Mediterranean; and this arrangement, which was a matter of common notoriety, amounted to a quasi-alliance, closer than was thought at that time. Sir Edward Grey made it known on August 2, 1914, that, even if we remained neutral, we would oppose a German fleet coming “into the Channel, or through the North Sea to undertake hostile operations against French coasts or shipping.” Such a lop-sided neutrality might have been possible in a short war; but could Germany have put up with it once supplies from overseas acquired decisive importance? Still, without this concentration of fleets and division of responsibilities, our naval armaments would have had to be much greater, which would again have displeased and distressed the pacifists. There is no escape from this dilemma: so long as there are bullies in the world, even the most pacific nation has to seek security in armaments and alliances; and if it is unwilling to assume the commitments inherent in alliances, it has vastly to increase its own armaments.

Pacifists reply to this by paeans on the beauty of multilateral treaties against the aggressor, whoever he may be, and of “collective security.” There was, indeed, much delight and self-congratulation in this country over the noble impartiality of the Locarno Treaty. This was a splendid instrument, so long as there was no occasion for it. We could simultaneously guarantee Germany against French aggression, when it was clear that the French would not attempt another Ruhr, and France against German aggression, when the Germans had no army. But would such double engagements be possible once things have become serious?

Those who inveigh most violently against “secret diplomacy” favour “diplomacy by conference,” the worst of all secret diplomacies; and, while similarly inveighing against “secret commitments,” favour commitments so vague and wide as, in fact, to render their precise meaning (if they have any) secret. Never was a worse secret commitment entered into by those responsible for British foreign policy than the Covenant of the League of Nations; which, moreover, was passed by Parliament practically without discussion, as a mere appendix to the Treaty of Versailles, and under its cover. It is true the terms of the Covenant were public, and, indeed, every pacifist jazz band blared them to the world. But how many people truly understood the meaning of those commitments, and the burden which they entailed if honestly carried out, or their futility and dishonesty if that burden was shirked? Under the Covenant we were no longer entitled to restrict ourselves to the defence of our own vital interests. And those who insisted on our assuming such extensive commitments, at the same time achieved a one-sided disarmament of this country. Personally I never believed either in the League of Nations or in “collective security”;^[1] and immediately after the experience offered by Vilna in 1920 I put down my objection in this simple theorem: “Those who are interested cannot be impartial, while those who are not interested cannot be effective. How, then, can you have international action?” Were we prepared to go to war over Vilna, Corfu, Manchukuo, or Abyssinia? Are we prepared to go to war over Spain or China, or shall we always find shelter behind the adverse vote of some Albania or Portugal? If unanimity and true collective action is required at every step, the League will remain what it is—a sham, a miserable farce. If majority rule is adopted, it will become a deadly danger. But this is unthinkable. And even within the sphere of “economic sanctions,” League action has been found more difficult and cumbrous than had been expected, and has proved ineffective because it was timid: no one wanted to go such a length as would threaten war.

The so-called “old diplomacy” was accused of dividing the world into two camps, which was said inevitably to lead to war. And where are we now?—with Germany, Italy, and Japan outside the League, allied and more aggressive than any nation dared to be before the war, but leaving their satellites in the League, presumably in order to complete its farcical discomfiture. The only effective measure of an international character, recently carried through, was the Nyon Agreement, which was concluded by one group of Powers, outside the framework of the League. And if there is any salvation for decency and liberty in the world, it is not in the Covenant of the League, dishonoured and disgraced, nor in the “splitting of articles” at Geneva, but in co-operation between Great Britain, the United States, and France, a group to which other Powers could adhere, or with which they could co-operate.

The greatest danger in foreign politics lies in what Mr. Nicolson once described as “complacent, unctuous, and empty rectitude”; in high-sounding shams which deprive people of a sense of responsibility, in a pacifism which will not face facts, and thereby hands over all power to those who count only with facts and with a capacity to create them. The last line of defence for the League of Nations is to claim that the idea is fine, only people will not carry it out honestly. Clearly the difficulty is in men and their nature. But what is the value of a practical political programme if it is not adjusted to the real conditions of life? Those who could work the scheme of the League require no Covenant, and those for whom the Covenant is required will not work it.

There is the old, well-known story about the man who, during the Lisbon earthquake of 1755, went about hawking anti-earthquake pills; but one incident is forgotten—when someone pointed out that the pills could not possibly be of use, the hawker replied: “But what will you put in their place?”

[1]	A very different thing from a Defence Front directed against a bully who threatens all who are within his reach (April 1939).