Chapter 2

I believe the correct
rendering----"

"It is sarcasm," interrupted a French Secretariat official, "_C'est
l'ironie._ The sender means that we are of so little use that in his
eyes we don't exist. _C'est tout._ We're used to these gibes."

"I expect it means," said another member of the Secretariat hopefully
(he was sick of Geneva), "that the fellow thinks the League will soon
be moved to Brussels."

"Is Maxse visiting Geneva by any chance?" inquired one of the
delegates from Central Africa. "It has rather his touch. But then
Maxse would always sign his name. He's unashamed.... I dare say this
is merely some religious maniac reminding us that _sic transit gloria
mundi_. Very likely a Jew.... Look, I have a much better one than that
from the Non-Alcoholics...."

So they proceeded in their leisurely, attached, and pleasant way to
discuss these outpourings from eager human hearts all over the globe.

But the second French delegate, after brooding a while, said
suddenly, "Ce télégramme-là, celui qui dit 'j'ai traversé par là, et
voici, il est biffé!' les Boches l'ont expédié. Oui, justement. Tous
les Boches veulent détruire la Société des Nations; ils le désirent
d'autant plus depuis que l'Allemagne est admise dans la Société des
Nations. C'est une chose tout à fait certaine."

The French would talk like that about the Germans: you could not
stop them. They had not, and possibly never would have, what is
called a League mind. Central Africa, who had remonstrated gently
but to no effect, pointing out that Germans would probably not be
acquainted with the English version of the Psalms, either Prayer
Book or Bible. To prevent international emotion from running high,
the acting-President caused the bell to be rung and the Assembly to
be summoned to their seats.

5

So here, thought Henry of the _British Bolshevist_, was this great
world federation in session. He could not help being excited, for he
was naturally excitable, and it was his first (and, had he known
it, his last) Assembly. He was annoyed by the noisy moving and
chattering of the people behind him in the gallery, which prevented
his hearing the opening speech so well as he otherwise would have
done. Foreigners--how noisy they were! They were for ever passing to
and fro, shaking hands with one another, exchanging vivacious
comments. Young French widows, in their heavy crape, gayest, most
resigned, most elegant of creatures, tripped by on their pin-like
heels, sweetly smiling their patient smiles. How different from
young British widows, who, from their dress, might just as well have
only lost a parent or brother. All widows are wonderful: Henry knew
this, for always he had heard "Dear so-and-so is being simply
wonderful" said of bereaved wives, and knew that it merely and in
point of fact meant bereaved; but French widows are widows indeed.
However, Henry wished they would sit still.

Henry was at the end of a row of English journalists. On his right,
across a little gangway, were Germans. "At close quarters," reflected
Henry, "one is not attracted by this unfortunate nation. It lacks--or
is it rather that it has--a _je ne sais quoi_.... It is perhaps more
favourably viewed from a distance: but even so not really favourably.
Possibly, like many other nations, it is seen to greatest advantage at
home. I must visit Germany." For Henry was anxious to acquire a broad,
wise, unbiased international mind.

The acting-President was speaking, in his charming and faultless
English. He was saying what a great deal the League had done since
the preceding Assembly. It did indeed seem, as he lightly touched on
it, a very great deal. It had grappled with disease and drugs,
economics, sanitation, prostitution, and education; it had through its
Court of Justice arbitrated several times in international disputes
and averted several wars; other wars it had deplored; it had wrestled
with unemployment and even with disarmament ... ("not, perhaps, quite
happily put," murmured one British delegate to another). It had had
great tasks entrusted to it and had performed them with success. It
hoped to have, in the future, greater tasks yet; ... it had admitted
to membership several new nations, to whom it had extended the
heartiest fraternal welcome; ... above all it had survived in the face
of all its enemies and detractors.... This present session was faced
with a large and important programme. But before getting on to it
there must be elections, votings, committees, a new President, and so
forth.

The speaker sat down amid the applause proper to the occasion, and
the interpreter rose to translate him into French.

An elderly English clergyman behind Henry tapped his shoulder with a
pencil and said, "What paper do you represent? I am reporting for the
_Challenge_. The Churches have not taken enough interest in the
League. One must stir them up. I preach about nothing else, in these
days. The Church of England is sadly apathetic."

"It is a fault churches have," said Henry. "All the same, the Pope has
telegraphed a blessing."

Those who would fain follow the French interpreter hushed them. Henry
leant over, and watched Latin America conferring among itself, looking
excited and full of purpose. Latin America obviously had something on
its mind.

"What interests them so much?" he wondered aloud, and the journalist
next him enlightened him.

"They've made up their minds to have a Latin American President again.
They say they make a third of the Assembly, and it's disgraceful that
they don't have one every year. They don't want Edwardes again; they
want one who'll let the Spanish-Americans get on their legs every few
minutes. Edwardes had lived abroad too long and was too cosmopolitan
for them. They're going to put up a really suitable candidate this
time, and jolly well see he gets it. He won't, of course. But there
may be the hell of a row."

"That will be very amusing," said Henry hopefully.

They were taking the votes of the delegates for the committee on the
credentials of delegates. Suppose, thought Henry, that in that hall
there were one or more delegates whose credentials were impeachable;
delegates, perhaps who had come here by ruse with forged authority, or
by force, having stolen the credentials from the rightful owner.... It
might be done: it surely could be done, by some unprincipled
adventurer from a far country. Perhaps it had been done, and perhaps
the committee would never be the wiser. Or perhaps there would be a
public _exposé_.... That would be interesting. Public _exposés_ were
always interesting. Henry's drifting glance strayed to the platform,
where the Secretariat staff sat, or went in and out through the
folding door. There, standing by the door and watching the animated
scene, was Charles Wilbraham, composed, pleased, serene, looking like
a theatrical producer on the first night of a well-staged play.

Yes, public _exposés_ were interesting....

The committee was elected and the Assembly dispersed for lunch, over
which they would occupy themselves in lobbying for the Presidential
election in the afternoon. Henry saw Charles Wilbraham go out in
company with one of the delegates from Central Africa. No doubt but
that the fellow had arranged to be seen lunching with this mainstay of
the League. To lunch with the important ... that should be the daily
goal of those for whom life is not a playground but a ladder. It was
Charles Wilbraham's daily goal: Henry remembered that from old days.

6

At the afternoon session the Assembly voted for a President and six
Vice-Presidents. It took a long time, and considerable feeling was
involved. Five candidates were proposed: Roumania suggested a French
delegate, Great Britain an Albanian bishop, Japan the senior British
delegate, Central Africa an eminent Norwegian explorer, and the Latin
Americans put up, between them, three of their own race. Owing to
unfortunate temporary differences between various of these small
republics they could not all agree on one candidate.

After what seemed to Henry, unversed in these matters, a great deal of
unnecessary voting on the part of the Assembly and of the Council, it
was announced that the delegate for Norway, Dr. Svensen, was elected
President. Amid cheers from those delegates who were pleased, from
those who had self-control enough to conceal their vexation, and from
the public in the galleries (for Dr. Svensen was the most widely
popular figure in the Assembly), the new President took his place and
made the appropriate speech, in his sonorous English. Many in the hall
were bored, some because the new President was known to be in with the
English, who are not always liked by other nations; some because he
spoke English readily and French ill, and most of them understood
French readily and English not at all; others because he was of the
party which was bent on carrying out certain measures in Europe for
which they saw no necessity.

However, Dr. Svensen, a brief person and no word-waster, did not
detain his audience long. At six o'clock the Assembly adjourned.

7

Henry despatched a short scornful story of the proceedings to his
newspaper (which would not, he knew, print a long or effusive one),
and dined with another English journalist in a café in the old _cité_.
The other journalist, Grattan, came from Paris, and was bored with the
League and with Geneva. He preferred to report crime and blood,
something, as he said, with guts in it. Statesmen assembled together
made him yawn. For his part, he wished something would happen during
the Assembly worth writing home about--some _crime passionnel_, some
blood and thunder melodrama. "Perhaps," said Henry, hopefully, "it
will."

"Well, it may. All these hot-blooded Latins and Slavs herded
together ought to be able to produce something.... I bet you the
Spanish Americans are hatching something to-night over there...." He
waved his hand in the direction of the other side of the lake, where
the great hotels blazed their thousand windows into the night. Behind
those windows burnt who knew what of passion and of plot?

8

Dr. Svensen, strolling at a late hour across the Pont du Mont Blanc
(he was returning from dinner at the Beau Rivage to his own hotel),
was disturbed by a whimpering noise behind him, like the mewing of a
little cat. Turning round, he saw a small and ragged form padding
barefoot after him, its knuckles in its eyes. The Norwegian explorer,
unlike most great men, was tender-hearted to children. Bending down to
the crying urchin, he inquired of it the cause of its trouble. Its
answer was in Russian, and to the effect that it was very hungry. Dr.
Svensen softened yet more. A hungry Russian child! That was an object
of pity which he never could resist. Russia was full of them; this one
was probably an exiled Bolshevik. He felt in his pockets for coins,
but the hungry Russian infant tugged at his coat. "Come," it said, and
Dr. Svensen gathered from it that there were yet more hungry Russians
where this came from. He followed....

9

The morning session of the Assembly was supposed to begin at ten, and
at this hour next morning the unsophisticated Henry Beechtree took
his seat in the Press Gallery. He soon perceived his mistake. The show
obviously was not going to begin for ages. No self-respecting delegate
or journalist would come into the hall on the stroke of the hour. The
superior thing, in this as in other departments of life, was to be
late. Lateness showed that serene contempt for the illusion we call
time which is so necessary to ensure the respect of others and
oneself. Only the servile are punctual....

But "Nothing to swank about in being late," thought Henry morosely;
"only means they've spent too long over their coffee and bread and
honey, the gluttons. I could have done the same myself."

Indeed, he wished that he had, for he fell again into the hands of the
elderly clergyman who had addressed him yesterday, and who was, of
course, punctual too.

"I see," said the clergyman, "that you have one of the French comic
papers with you. A pity their humour is so much spoilt by
suggestiveness."

Suggestiveness. Henry could never understand that word as applied in
condemnation. Should not everything be suggestive? Or should all
literature, art, and humour be a cul-de-sac, suggesting no idea
whatsoever? Henry did not want to be uncharitable, but he could not
but think that those who used this word in this sense laid themselves
open to the suspicion (in this case, at least, quite unjustified),
that their minds were only receptive of one kind of suggestion, and
that a coarse one.

"I expect," he replied, "that you mean coarseness. People often do
when they use that word, I notice. Anyhow, the papers are not very
funny, I find."

"Suggestiveness," said the clergyman, "is seldom amusing."

Before Henry had time to argue again about this word, he hurried on.

"I sent yesterday a long message to the _Church Times_, the
_Guardian_, the _Commonwealth_, and the _Challenge_ about the first
meeting. It is most important that these papers should set before
their readers the part that the Church ought to play in promoting
international goodwill."

"Indeed," said Henry, who did not see Anglican journals. He added
vaguely, "The Pope sent a telegram...." For when people spoke to him
of Church life, he said "the Pope" mechanically; it was his natural
reaction to the subject.

"You interest me," said the English clergyman. "For the second time
you have mentioned the Pope to me. Are you, perhaps, a Roman
Catholic?"

"I suppose," Henry absently agreed, "that is what you would call it."

"We do, you know," the clergyman apologised. "Forgive me if it seems
discourteous.... You know, then, of course, who that is, opposite?"

Henry looked across the hall to the opposite gallery, and perceived
that his companion was referring to a small, delicate-looking elderly
man, with the face of a priest and the clothes of a layman, who had
just taken his seat there.

"I do not indeed."

"He is the ex-cardinal Franchi. You know him by reputation, of
course."

"Wasn't he suspended for heresy? I have, I think, seen some of his
books."

"He is a great scholar and a delightful writer. No one has gone more
deeply into mediæval Church history and modern theological criticism.
So I am told, but I have not read him myself, as he prefers to write
in Italian, though he has a perfect command of several other tongues."

"Nor I, as I am not very much interested in Church history or
theological criticism. Besides, his writings are, I suppose,
heretical."

"I don't know as to that; I am no judge. But he was, I believe, as you
say, retired for heresy. And now he lives in the most delightful of
mediæval châteaux at Monet, a little village up the lake. I have been
to see him there. If I may, I will introduce you. He enjoys making the
acquaintance of his co-religionists. In this Calvinistic part of the
world the educated classes are nearly all Protestants. The ex-cardinal
does not care for Protestants; he finds them parvenus and bourgeois.
He is a delightfully courteous host, however, even to those, and a
wonderful talker. And his heart is in the League. A wit, a scholar, an
aristocrat, a _bon-viveur_, and a philanthropist. If your Church
retains many priests as good as those she expels, she is to be
congratulated."

"She is," Henry agreed. "She can afford to fling out one or two by the
way. Yes; I would like to know him, the ex-cardinal; he looks witty
and shrewd, and at the same time an idealist.... But how late they are
in beginning. My watch is seldom right, but I imagine it must be after
ten-thirty."

The young man Grattan, with whom Henry had dined last night, lounged
in, with his cynical smile.

"You're very young and innocent, Beechtree. I suppose you've been here
since ten. It's just on eleven now. The President's not to hand and no
one seems to know where he is. Oh, well, it's not his fault; people
spoil him. His head's turned, poor Svensen. I expect he made a night
of it and is lying in this morning. I don't blame him. We don't need a
President. But there seems to be some unrest among the Secretariat."

This seemed, indeed, to be so. The members of this body, standing
about the hall and platform, were animated and perturbed; the
more irresponsible juniors seemed amused, others anxious. The
Secretary-General was talking gravely to another high official.

The correspondent of the _Daily Insurance_, who had been talking in
the hall to the delegates and Secretariat, watched by Henry from above
with some envy, at this point entered the Press Gallery, edged his way
to his seat, picked up the papers he had deposited there earlier, and
made rapidly for the exit.

"Got a story already?" Grattan said to him.

"No, but there may be one any moment. They've sent round to the
Metropole, and Svensen didn't sleep in his bed. He never came in last
night after dinner."

He was off. Grattan whistled, and looked more cheerful.

"That's good enough. That's a story in itself. Didn't sleep in his
bed. That's a headline all right. Good old Svensen. Here, I'm going
down to hear more. Mustn't let Jefferson get ahead of us. Come
along, Beechtree, and nose things out. This will be nuts for our
readers. Even your crabbed paper will have to give a column to Svensen
Not Sleeping in his Bed. Can't you see all the little eyes lighting
up?"

He rushed away, and Henry followed. Meanwhile the bell was rung and
MM. les Délégués took their seats. The deputy-President, the delegate
for Belgium, took the chair. The President, he announced, was
unfortunately not yet in attendance. Pending his arrival, the Assembly
would, since time pressed, proceed with the order of the day, which
was the election of committees.... The Assembly, always ready to vote,
began to do so. It would keep them busy for some time.

10

Meanwhile Henry stood about in the lobby, where a greater excitement
and buzz of talk than usual went on. Where was Dr. Svensen? The other
members of the Norwegian delegation could throw no light on the
question. He had dined last night at the Beau Rivage, with the British
delegation; he had left that hotel soon after eleven, on foot; he had
meant, presumably, to walk back to the Metropole, which stood behind
the Jardin Anglais, on the Mont Blanc side. The hall porter at the
Metropole asserted that he had never returned there. The Norwegian
delegation, not seeing him in the morning, had presumed that he had
gone out early; but now the hotel staff declared that he had not spent
the night in the hotel.

"He probably thought he would go for a long walk; the night was fine,"
Jefferson, who knew his habits, suggested. "Or for a row up the lake.
The sort of thing Svensen _would_ do."

"In that case he's drowned," said Grattan, who was of a forthright
manner of speech. "He's a business-like fellow, Svensen. He'd have
turned up in time for the show if he could, even after a night out."

The next thing was to inquire of the boat-keepers, and messengers were
despatched to do this.

"I am afraid it looks rather serious," remarked a soft, grave,
important voice behind Henry's back. "I am pretty intimate with
Svensen; I was lunching with him only yesterday, as it happens. He
didn't say a word then of any plan for a night expedition, I am afraid
it looks sadly like an accident of some sort."

"Perspicacious fellow," muttered Jefferson, who did not like Charles
Wilbraham.

Henry edged away: neither did he like Charles Wilbraham. He did not
even turn his face towards him.

He jostled into his friend the English clergyman, who said, "Ah, Mr.
Beechtree. I want to introduce you to Dr. Franchi." He led Henry by
the arm to the corner where the alert-looking ex-cardinal stood,
talking with the Spaniard whom Henry had noticed in the lift at the
Secretariat buildings.

"Mr. Beechtree, Your Eminence," said the Reverend Cyril Waring, who
chose by the use of this title to show at once his respect for the
ex-cardinal, his contempt for the bigotry which had unfrocked him, and
his disgust at the scandalous tongues which whispered that the
reason for his unfrocking had been less heresy than the possession of
a wife, or even wives. If Canon Waring had heard these spiteful
_on-dits_, he paid no attention to them; he was a high-minded
enthusiast, and knew a gentleman and a scholar when he saw one.

"The correspondent of the _British Bolshevist_," he added, "and a
co-religionist of Your Eminence's."

The ex-cardinal gave Henry his delicate hand, and a shrewd and
agreeable smile.

"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Beechtree. You must come and see me one
day, if you will, at my lake villa. It is a pleasant expedition, and a
beautiful spot."

He spoke excellent English with a slight accent. A thousand pities,
thought Henry, that such a delightful person should be a heretic--such
a heretic as to have been unfrocked. Why, indeed, should any one be a
heretic? Atheism was natural enough, but heresy seemed strange. For,
surely, if one could believe anything, one could believe everything.
For his part, he believed everything....

Nevertheless, he accepted the invitation with pleasure. It would be a
trip, and Henry loved trips, particularly up lakes.

Dr. Franchi, observing the young journalist with approbation, liking
his sensitive and polite face, saw it grow suddenly sullen, even
spiteful, at the sound of a voice raised in conversation not far from
him.

"Perhaps you will do me the honour of lunching with me, M. Kratzky. I
have a little party coming, including Suliman Bey...."

M. Kratzky was, in his way, the most deeply and profusely
blood-stained of Russians. One of the restored Monarchist government,
he it was who had organised and converted the Tche-ka to Monarchist
use, till they became in his hands an instrument of perfect and deadly
efficiency, sparing neither age, infancy, nor ill-health. M. Kratzky
had devised a system of espionage so thorough, of penalties so
drastic, that few indeed were safe from torture, confinement, or
death, and most experienced all three. One would scarcely say that the
White tyranny was worse than the Red had been, or worse than the White
before that (one would indeed scarcely say that any Russian government
was appreciably worse than any other); but it was to the full as bad,
and Kratzky (the Butcher of Odessa, as his nickname was), was its
chief tyrant. And here was Charles Wilbraham taking the butcher's
blood-stained hand and asking him to lunch. What Mr. Wickham Steed
used to feel of those who asked the Bolsheviks to lunch at Genoa in
April, 1922, Henry now felt of Charles Wilbraham, only more so. And
Suliman Bey too ... a ghastly Turk; for Turk (whatever you might think
of Russians) _were_ ghastly; the very thought of them, for all their
agreeable manners, turned Henry, who was squeamish about physical
cruelty, sick. God, what a lunch party!

"You know our friend Mr. Wilbraham, I expect," said Dr. Franchi.

"Scarcely," said Henry. "He wouldn't know me."

"A very efficient young man. He has that air."

"He has. But not really very clever, you know. It's largely put on....
I'm told. He likes to _seem_ to know everything ... so I've heard."

"A common peccadillo." The ex-cardinal waved it aside with a large and
tolerant gesture. "But we do not, most of us, succeed in it."

"Oh, Wilbraham doesn't succeed. Indeed no. Most people see at once
that he is just a solemn ass. That face, you know ... like a
mushroom...."

"Ah, that is a Bernard Shaw phrase. A bad play, that, but excellent
dialogue.... But he is good-looking, Mr. Wilbraham."

Henry moodily supposed that he was. "In a sort of smug, cold way," he
admitted.

"E cosa fa tra questo bel giovanotto e quel Charles Wilbraham?"
wondered the ex-cardinal, within himself.

11

Henry left the Salle de la Reformation and went out into the town to
look for further light on the mystery. How proud he would be if he
should collect more information about it than the other journalists!
Than Jefferson, for instance, who was always ahead in these things,
interviewing statesmen, getting statements made to him.... No one made
statements to Henry; he never liked to ask for them. But he was, he
flattered himself, as good as any one else at nosing out news stories,
mysteries, and so forth.

Musing deeply, he walked to the ice-cream café, close to the Assembly
Hall. There he ordered an ice of mixed framboise, pistachio, and
coffee, and some iced raspberry syrup, and sat outside under the
awning, slowly enjoying the ice, sucking the syrup through straws, and
thinking. He always thought best while eating well too; with him, as
with many others, high living and high thinking went together, or
would have, only lack of the necessary financial and cerebral means
precluded much practice of either.

While yet in the middle of the raspberry syrup he suddenly lifted his
mouth from the straws, ejaculated softly, and laughed.

"It is a possibility," he muttered. "A possibility, worth following
up.... Odder things have happened ... are happening, all the time....
In fact, this is not at all an odd thing...." Decisively he rapped on
the table for his bill, paid for his meal, and rose to go, not
forgetting first to finish his raspberry syrup.

He walked briskly along the side of the lake to the Molard jetty,
where he found a _mouette_ in act to start for the other side. How he
loved these _mouette_ rides, the quick rush through blue water, half
Geneva on either side, and the narrow shave under the Pont du Mont
Blanc. He was always afraid that one day they would not quite manage
it, but would hit the bridge; it was a fear of which he could not get
rid. He always held his breath as they rushed under the bridge, and
let it out in relief as they emerged safely beyond it. How cheap it
was: a lake trip for fifteen centimes! Henry was sorry when they
reached the other side. He walked thoughtfully up from the landing
stage to the Secretariat, where he ascended to the room of Mr.
Wilbraham. Mr. Wilbraham was not, of course, there; he was over at the
Assembly Hall. But his secretary was there; a cheerful young lady
typing letters with extraordinary efficiency and rapidity.

"Oh," said Henry, "I'm sorry. I thought Mr. Wilbraham might possibly
be here."

"No," said the young lady agreeably. "He is over at the Assembly. Will
you leave a message?"

Henry laid his hat and cane on a table, and strode about the room. A
large pleasant room it was, with a good carpet; the kind of room that
Charles Wilbraham would have, and always did have.

"No. No, I'll look in again. Or I'll see him over there this
afternoon." He looked at his watch. "Lunch time. How quickly the
morning has gone. It always does; don't you find that? And more so
than usual when it's an exciting morning like this."

"It is exciting, isn't it. Have they found him yet? I do admire him,
don't you?"

"Completely. No, they haven't found him. Mr. Wilbraham says it looks
sadly like an accident of some sort."

She acknowledged his imitation of Mr. Wilbraham's voice with a smile.

"That would be tragic. Svensen, of all the delegates! One wouldn't
mind most of them disappearing a bit. Some of them would be good
riddances."

"Well," said Henry, changing the subject, "if we're both going out to
lunch, can't we lunch together? I'm Beechtree, of the _British
Bolshevist_."

Miss Doris Wembley looked at Beechtree, rather liked him, and said,
"Right. But I must finish one letter first."

She proceeded with her efficient, rapid, and noisy labours. She did
not need to look at the keyboard, she was like that type of knitter
who knits the while she gazes into space; she had learnt "Now is the
time for all good men to come to the help of the party."

Henry, strolling round the room, observing details, had time to
speculate absently on the wonderful race of typists. He had in
the past known many of them well, and felt towards them a regard
untouched by glamour. How, he had often thought, they took life for
granted, unquestioning, unwondering, accepting, busy eternally with
labours they understood so little, performed so well, rattling
out their fusillade of notes that formed words they knew not of,
sentences that, uncomprehended, yet did not puzzle them or give them
pause, on topics which they knew only as occasioning cascades of
words. To them one word was the same, very nearly the same, as
another of similar length; words had features, but no souls; did
they fail to decipher the features of one of them, another of the
same dimensions would do. And what commas they wielded, what colons,
what semis, what stops! But efficient they were, all the same, for
they were usually approximately right, and always incredibly quick.
Henry knew that those stenographers who had been taken out to Geneva
were, in the main, of a more sophisticated order, of a higher
intellectual equipment. But Charles Wilbraham's secretary was of the
ingenuous type. Probably the more sophisticated would not stay with
him. A pretty girl she was, with a round brown face, kind dark eyes,
and a wide, sweet, and dimpling mouth. Henry, like every one else,
liked a girl to be pretty, but, quite unlike most young men, he
preferred her to be witty.