Two things struck me as characteristic of the principal plenipotentiaries:  as a rule, they eschewed first-rate men as fellow-workers, one integer and several zeros being their favorite formula, and they took no account of the flight of time, planning as though an eternity were before them and then suddenly improvising as though afraid of being late for a train or a steamer.  These peculiarities were baleful.  The lesser states, having mainly first-class men to represent them, illustrated the law of compensation, which assigned many mediocrities to the Great Powers.  The former were also the most strenuous toilers, for their task bristled with difficulties and abounded in startling surprises, and its accomplishment depended on the will of others.  Time and again they went over the ground with infinite care, counting and gaging the obstacles in their way, devising means to overcome them, and rehearsing the effort in advance.  So much stress had been laid during the war on psychology, and such far-reaching consequences were being drawn from the Germans’ lack of it, that these public men made its cultivation their personal care.  Hence, besides tracing large-scale maps of provinces and comprehensive maps[53] of the countries to be reconstituted, and ransacking history for arguments and precedents, they conscientiously ascertained the idiosyncrasies of their judges, in order to choose the surest ways to impress, convince, or persuade them.  And it was instructive to see them try their hand at this new game.

One and all gave assent to the axiom that moderation would impress the arbiters more favorably than greed, but not all of them wielded sufficient self-command to act upon it.  The more resourceful delegates, whose tasks were especially redoubtable because they had to demand large provinces coveted by others, prepared the ground by visiting personally some of the more influential arbiters before these were officially appointed, forcibly laying their cases before them and praying for their advice.  In reality they were striving to teach them elementary geography, history, and politics.  The Ulysses of the Conference, M. Venizelos, first pilgrimaged to London, saying:  “If the Foreign Office is with Greece, what matters it who is against her.”  He hastened to call on President Wilson as soon as that statesman arrived in Europe, and, to the surprise of many, the two remained a long time closeted together.  “Whatever did you talk about?” asked a colleague of the Greek Premier.  “How did you keep Wilson interested in your national claims all that time?  You must have—­” “Oh no,” interrupted the modest statesman.  “I disposed of our claims succinctly enough.  A matter of two minutes.  Not more.  I asked him to dispense me from taking up his time with such complicated issues which he and his colleagues would have ample opportunity for studying.  The rest of the time I was getting him to give me the benefit of his familiarity with the subject of the League of Nations.  And he