settled.  Or he could attempt an appeal to the world over the heads of the Conference.  These were wretched alternatives, against each of which a great deal could be said.  They were also very risky,—­especially for a politician.  The President’s mistaken policy over the Congressional election had weakened his personal position in his own country, and it was by no means certain that the American public would support him in a position of intransigeancy.  It would mean a campaign in which the issues would be clouded by every sort of personal and party consideration, and who could say if right would triumph in a struggle which would certainly not be decided on its merits?  Besides, any open rupture with his colleagues would certainly bring upon his head the blind passions of “anti-German” resentment with which the public of all allied countries were still inspired.  They would not listen to his arguments.  They would not be cool enough to treat the issue as one of international morality or of the right governance of Europe.  The cry would simply be that, for various sinister and selfish reasons, the President wished “to let the Hun off.”  The almost unanimous voice of the French and British Press could be anticipated.  Thus, if he threw down the gage publicly he might be defeated.  And if he were defeated, would not the final Peace be far worse than if he were to retain his prestige and endeavor to make it as good as the limiting conditions of European politics would allow, him?  But above all, if he were defeated, would he not lose the League of Nations?  And was not this, after all, by far the most important issue for the future happiness of the world?  The Treaty would be altered and softened by time.  Much in it which now seemed so vital would become trifling, and much which was impracticable would for that very reason never happen.  But the League, even in an imperfect form, was permanent; it was the first commencement of a new principle in the government of the world; Truth and Justice in international relations could not be established in a few months,—­they must be born in due course by the slow gestation of the League.  Clemenceau had been clever enough to let it be seen that he would swallow the League at a price.

At the crisis of his fortunes the President was a lonely man.  Caught up in the toils of the Old World, he stood in great need of sympathy, of moral support, of the enthusiasm of masses.  But buried in the Conference, stifled in the hot and poisoned atmosphere of Paris, no echo reached him from the outer world, and no throb of passion, sympathy, or encouragement from his silent constituents in all countries.  He felt that the blaze of popularity which had greeted his arrival in Europe was already dimmed; the Paris Press jeered at him openly; his political opponents at home were taking advantage of his absence to create an atmosphere against him; England was cold, critical, and unresponsive.  He had so formed his entourage