Dark Palace (34 page)

‘Paradoxically, national interest can mean the subjugation in the short term of one national “interest”—say, a trade in a commodity. Making these judgements is the test of diplomatic wisdom.'

The chair took another question from a woman. ‘You mean that sanctions can work only in a perfectly wise world?'

Edith looked into the woman's eyes and said, ‘Even imperfectly applied sanctions can work: the instrument has within it a tolerance for imperfection.

‘The world has to have things in position so it can act fast.'

The woman sat down, and then stood up, remembering to say ‘Thank you' in a weak voice.

As Edith spoke with strong conviction, without nervousness, she realised that she loved—almost to obsession—the instrument of sanctions and desperately wanted to see it tried.

She didn't care so much about the particular issue anymore: she felt the need of an inventor to see the invention tested, whether it blew up or not.

Perhaps she'd become preoccupied with
technique
rather than with international morality.

She pushed aside this new self-observation and returned her attention to the woman who had sat down and was now standing again.

The woman said, ‘Then who should have forced what you call the moral moment? Who should have called the bluff?'

‘A resolute international leader can engender political will—in his own country and in the international forum.'

She knew that was a circular argument. Where did ‘resolute leaders' get
their
will?

She had no ready answer for that.

She then said, ‘All is never lost. Once a diplomatic chain of events has occurred, whether the chain leads to success or failure, that diplomatic chain becomes part of the institutional memory of the world, lodges itself, as it were, in the diplomatic memory, and the next time a similar situation occurs that memory will cause people to behave differently. Perhaps the next time they will use this memory of failure to forge the political will—to call the bluff of an aggressor.'

If situations which arose were ever the same. Bartou thought not. And if you could identify them as the same.

Was that really correct? Was there a world memory.

Maybe the League was the world memory.

A man stood up and asked, ‘If a country can bluff the world by threatening to spread the conflict, how do we ever know that it
is
bluff and that the conflict would not be spread in some frightful way?'

Edith knew the horrible answer.

She heard in her head the voice of Ambrose giving the answer he had once given in their bedroom during a discussion. She had never used that answer.

Now she saw no way of avoiding it.

‘There is something called the Dilemma of Preventative Action. If you take strong and successful action—be it military or economic—to prevent some
predicted
dreadful thing happening, history will never ever know if that predicted dreadful thing really would've happened. If we had wrecked the Italian economy for a time, caused some hardship there before they were able to properly invade Ethiopia, we would never have known if they would've spread the conflict or done the brutal things we feared they would. History cannot tell you that you were right to act; it can only tell you when you were wrong
not to act
.'

The man remained standing waiting for more of an answer.

She was sucked on into the question. ‘And there will always
be those who condemn the preventative action if it is successful—the surgery—and there is often very little conclusive evidence that can be given afterwards to say that the dreadful things would've happened had there not been the surgery.'

The man said, ‘Does that mean that we'll always go to war when the dreadful things are underway, can be seen to be happening—that we will only act when it's too late?'

She thought and said tiredly, ‘It could be that democracies will always go to war too late. Because they have to pause for debate and listen to qualms. Yes.'

‘Is that your complete answer?'

While saying this Edith was hearing for the first time the true meaning of this political truth.

She saw clearly that the members of the League and the democracies would always have trouble taking joint action. She saw that nations were falling back on defending themselves alone or in alliances. They were falling back into the dark ages. Away from the vision of a single sensible world of decent nations.

‘Is the League dead then?' the man insisted.

She looked at the intent faces yearning for her to say something which would keep the faith. To lift the meeting.

She had never seen faces so craving for reassurance.

The chair cut in and said, ‘Each person is entitled to one question I think, Mr Tierney. You have, if I count correctly, asked three.'

She could hide behind the chair's ruling.

She looked out at their eyes.

Regardless of the chair, they wanted an answer to the deep and existential question on the political condition.

Before she could try to answer, the chairman then called on Hermann Black to move a vote of thanks which was seconded by someone she didn't know and the meeting was closed with loud applause.

She had been relieved from giving the answer.

She decided then that she had to answer. That the question went to the very core of the human political condition.

She went back to the podium and said, ‘Please. Please may I beg your attention for a second?'

The audience paused in their postures of rising from seats and the gathering of things.

‘I haven't answered the last question. I don't want you to go away thinking I'm an artful dodger.'

Their faces once more turned to her.

She knew that only a second-class mind cannot adequately and comprehensively explain the opposite of what one personally believed. You were either involved in inquiry or you were involved in making propaganda.

She decided she had to go in against her argument.

‘I would be simply a publicist if I put only the case for the things I believe. I would not be a true inquirer. And universities are for inquiry.

‘There are three things against sanctions—that they could spread the conflict; that they could be seen,
in themselves
, as an act of aggression; and they hurt the poor or those who are unable to protect themselves from being injured by the sanctions within the country.

‘The leaders are always quarantined from the impact of sanctions by their control of food and medicine. Only the powerless suffer.

‘But sanctions as a preventative action—and as distinct from military action—at least, do not cost people their lives.

‘I think you want me to tell you what I believe about the future of world politics from my experience at the League.'

She saw that no one was leaving. They were standing listening to her.

‘I believe that no significant international injustice remains forever,' she said. ‘That Ethiopia will regain its independence.

‘That Mussolini will answer for misusing his country's resources in war.

‘That a failure of will at one time is not a failure of will for all times. That democratic countries are self-examining and self-correcting.

‘And that sometimes that will, having failed, can at times, reassert itself. That democratic will is
resurgent
. I believe that democracies can come together with great force. And will learn how to do this.

‘Democratic states in combination are still learning the hardest lessons: when to act and when not to act; how to act; which instruments of collective action?; and how to act swiftly. There is an old Indian proverb—it is good to help; but it is wiser to know
how to help
.

‘The League of Nations is a college as much as it is a political instrument.

‘We are all learning.'

The audience began to clap and it grew into massive applause.

She saw belief in the eyes of the audience.

She wondered if her answers were a sham.

Whether they would survive the test of the cold light of day.

Everyone was still standing and clapping.

On stage, Elkin, in the chair, was clapping. Chairmen were not supposed to clap.

Even Mr Powell and young Follan were clapping.

It was pleasing and she was flushed, but her relentless punishing mind was already saying sardonically in her head, ‘Explain again what constitutes “political will”, Edith.'

She told her relentlessly punishing mind to go away—to let her have a moment of triumph, let the League have a moment of acclaim. It could be its last.

It was applause for her belief in the ingenuity of the human political mind. She had won applause for the visionary and inventive nature of higher politics.

The applause died away and people left. Follan came over
and shook her hand, and others of the committee came over to thank her. The appreciation sounded genuine.

She gathered her notes and put them in her handbag. The best part of her speech had not been in her notes.

Perhaps today there'd also been the confrontation of herself with her student past, a confrontation with her days of inadequacy.

She had come back to face that inadequacy.

Perhaps, today, she'd at last graduated.

After the thanks and the congratulations, Edith saw Alva waiting patiently at the back of the lecture theatre, as arranged, and she excused herself from the well-wishers and went over to her.

They hugged again and then took a taxi to Mockbells coffee shop, one of their old undergraduate haunts.

When they were seated, she said to Alva, ‘Well? How did I go?'

Alva seemed confused. ‘How did you go?'

‘With my talk? How did it go?'

‘You want me to tell you how your talk was received!?'

‘My going back like that after the talk was all over and having a second go. I've never done that before in my life.'

‘They applauded. It was an ovation.'

‘But was it just politeness?'

‘Isn't it rather immodest to ask me to praise you … to your face?' Alva looked down at the table.

Alva was irritated.

Edith was taken aback.

Edith put her hands on Alva's hands but realised that Alva was not responsive. She searched Alva's face for additional
meaning. ‘I suppose it is a seeking of praise. Public speaking is always nerve-wracking. I want to know.'

‘You just want me to say how brilliant you are.'

‘Alva, deep down I'm seeking reassurance. Plain and simple reassurance. That I didn't make an ass of myself.'

The paradox of it—she had been trying to reassure the audience and now desperately needed to be reassured herself.

Alva seemed to disbelieve her. ‘You don't need reassurance from a plain old laboratory assistant like me.' And then she laughed unpleasantly. ‘And anyhow, politeness would prevent me telling you the truth.'

Alva's agitation now seemed to imply there'd been some nasty failure in the speech. Applause could never really be trusted, nor the remarks of the organising committee afterwards. Nor the vote of thanks. Even laughter from an audience was a qualified acceptance.

Edith said, ‘A friend can tell the truth.'

‘A friend?'

Was she also presuming Alva's friendship? ‘It's rather frightening to be with someone after a talk who doesn't mention it. I'm sitting here thinking you found it all dull propaganda.'

Edith was now embarrassed, floundering. Of course, if it had flopped, Alva might not be able to find the words. Edith could see then how it must seem to Alva—that Alva didn't think her own reaction to be important to Edith.

Edith said. ‘Alva, you've talked in public—you must know the feeling?'

‘I have never talked in public' she said, with some irritation. ‘Not in the way you talk in public. I can't imagine doing it. Furthermore, no one gives me an opportunity.'

Edith thought back to the Public Issues Society and yes, she couldn't remember Alva speaking.

Edith kept back her spontaneous retort—
then get up on your hind legs and talk!

She did not remember this whining attitude in Alva.

Edith kept this all back and softened her voice, tightening her hands on Alva's, ‘I find it so demanding,' Edith said. ‘Every time I get up to speak.'

‘You don't show it.'

‘It's there.'

Alva stared back at her, ‘You're brilliant and composed and assured—all those things. And you know it.'

The words came out almost resentfully.

‘Alva. I see now I shouldn't have asked. It was unfair. I apologise. You don't have to say anything.'

‘Now you want me to stop because you realise that my opinion doesn't count for beans?'

‘No! I do value your opinion—but I should never've sought it. I felt today in the talk that I had so little to give—so little true soundness. That perhaps I was bluffing. I had only sad stories to tell. I felt the League had let the world down. Oddly, I felt I had let everyone down. As if I was sent from this country to set things right with the world and have come back as a flop.'

‘That's a rather big-noting way of seeing yourself.'

Alva was being impossible. Edith began to bristle, ‘Alva! I wasn't being that serious. I don't see myself that way—it was just a caricature of myself. A caricature of my dreams.'

Alva seemed to respond to Edith's stronger tone. ‘To tell you the truth, I expected you to be more critical. To say honestly that the League had crashed.'

Hah. So now there was some true criticism of the talk.

Edith restrained herself from falling back into the role of Champion of the League. Edith softened her voice. ‘I thought I was bleak enough.'

‘I can't see why you say sanctions and blockades are any better than war. Surely it means starving the population into submission? And it's the children who suffer. There are always rations for soldiers.'

‘I said that in the talk.'

‘And why turn on Italy? Mussolini is a source of hope, surely?'

Edith recalled Alva's remarks at lunch. ‘Mussolini? How so?'

The coffee arrived. Edith, in a conspiratorial way, took her flask from her handbag, and gestured that Alva might like some brandy in her coffee. Alva was flustered. ‘Go on—keep me company—I'm desperate for a drink.'

Without waiting for an answer from Alva, Edith poured brandy into both their coffees.

‘Golly,' Alva said. ‘You really live the emancipated life.'

Edith grinned and lifted her coffee cup, ‘Cheers.'

Alva took up her cup. ‘Cheers.'

‘In Geneva we say
santé
—health.'

Shouldn't have flaunted Geneva.

‘
Santé
, then,' Alva said, lapsing back into a discontented frown. ‘Isn't Musso a force for order? Vera Brittain said she'd rather fascism than war.'

‘I like Vera Brittain but I'm not a pacifist.'

She wanted to find agreement with Alva—she needed the comfort of friendship now. ‘I went to Italy—I loved it.'

Alva lit up. ‘Tell me about Italy.'

Edith felt she had to give something positive to Alva. ‘I was in Italy on League business.'

Was that big-noting in Alva's book?

‘As you know, it's not that far from Geneva—it's really just down the road. Italy is more … well, sanitary now, I'll grant Musso that. And tipping has been banned.'

Hell's bells. Her travelogue would have to be smarter than that.

‘A police attendant was attached to me at the border to look after me because I was travelling with a
lettre de mission
from the Secretary-General. But I felt more under observation than under protection.'

‘That sounds so grand, Edith.'

Edith detected begrudging admiration. How difficult it was to talk while taking into account all these sensitivities.

‘Oh, really? Standard practice when you do these sorts of things.'

Did you meet
him
?'

‘No—I am far too lowly for that. Anthony Eden told me a story about
him
.'

‘Anthony Eden!'

‘He's Minister for the League, so we see a lot of him at Geneva.'

‘Gee, that's fairly grand too—meeting him. Is he as good looking as his photographs?'

‘Yes, he certainly is. I was working for him and we became rather close—he told me that Mussolini goes into dinner
ahead of the ladies
.'

‘Well, he
is
the Ruler of Italy.'

‘No excuse for poor manners.'

‘Go on.'

‘I rather think that the police escort was a spy to see who I talked with and about what.'

‘Why do you always think ill of the Italians?'

‘I don't think ill of the Italian
people
—but I had a bad experience in Geneva a few years ago. Not with Italians but with fascists. Fascists who modelled themselves on the Italians.'

Edith thought she would leave it at that.

‘Sorry to sound querulous,' Alva said.

At least Alva was bending a little now.

‘Tell me more about Italy,' Alva said. ‘I really would like to know.'

‘Oh, I wasn't there doing anything really important. Just delivering a document to their Foreign Office which couldn't be entrusted to the mails. At Milan the train was delayed for a few hours and my fascist escort called the local police for a car and this long black car arrived to take me sightseeing until
the train was ready to depart. The train couldn't, in fact, depart until we had returned.'

Everything she said seemed to come out with a boastful ring to it.

‘Edith! You live like an ambassador. I suppose you speak Italian?'

‘A little—Geneva gives you a smattering of Italian, I suppose. If you want to be smattered.'

‘I think I'll learn Italian,' Alva said.

‘I will say this—if the Italian police hated being servants to a woman, and a woman from the League, at that, they didn't show it.'

‘The Italians respect women.'

The more Edith thought about it, it was a flirtatious civility which had been shown her. Behind the flirtation there was perhaps a discomfort. They had to hide their servility behind this flirtation so as to be able to stomach the idea of a woman travelling alone and doing a man's job.

‘Oh, there's a wonderful detail which I forgot. The fascist escort had to ride a push-bike behind the car when we were sightseeing because the District Chief was my official host at this point, and the fascist escort was of too low a rank to travel in the same car. We had the sight of this man pedalling as fast as he could to keep up with us.'

‘Doesn't sound very fair.'

‘They have other values—other values than fairness, I suppose. Rank, for a start. They value rank.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘When I'd completed my mission—I had to deliver the document and also to interview some Italians in government departments to collect some figures, so I had an interpreter—I tried to give the escort a gratuity, some
lira
, because he'd run messages for me and got tickets and all that sort of thing. He refused the money, gave a fascist salute and said …' Edith put on her actor's voice, ‘ “
It is my duty, signora
.” '

‘It sounds like a marvellous country.'

That was hardly the point of the anecdote. Never mind.

Edith decided to tell her another story to give Alva what she wanted to hear. She wanted Alva to relax, to be on side. ‘A peddler trying to sell me some trinkets became very insistent and rude as peddlers can be in these countries. My escort was off doing something else but another blackshirt came out of the crowd and told this peddler to return to his stall and to stop pestering me.'

‘Surely that sort of thing is good for Italy and an example for the world?'

Edith had been through a number of arguments in the Bavaria and elsewhere about Mussolini.

‘I don't think so. As I've said, you find Mussolini-style fascists even in Geneva. Called the Action Civique. A nasty, nasty gang.'

She told Alva how she had been at a nightclub when they had burst in and how they pushed around people including herself. Edith felt the painful qualms of that night pass through her as she relived the grim and dirty details in one part of her mind while telling Alva a milder version of the story which she had often used for general telling and to illustrate a political point. ‘I defended an ambassador from Azerbaidjhan from the crowd and suffered an indignity at their hands for my trouble.'

‘Perhaps they were provoked?'

‘You don't understand. This was a nightclub where people went to have fun.'

How to describe to Alva the sort of club the Molly was. Oh dear. All these evasions. Oh well. She must keep it light.

‘The outcome was fascinating,' she laughed. ‘For my efforts to defend him, I have had a river named after me in Azerbaidjhan.'

‘A river named after you?' She did not seem to believe the story. ‘And you go to nightclubs?'

‘Not every night,' she laughed. ‘On some occasions we go to the casinos in France, usually to take visitors—the border isn't so far, you know—or to nightclubs, yes. But I hate gambling.'

The conversation was a mess, all the wrong things were coming out. It was out of control.

‘Such a life,' Alva said. A resentful admiration. ‘Europe is so far ahead of us.'

‘Oh, the only thing that I think Australia has to learn is to install bidets,' Edith said, trying to lighten things.

Alva looked as if she were drowning. ‘What's a bidet?'

Edith laughed. ‘Oh, I was frightened you might ask me that.'

‘Well?'

She leaned over to Alva and whispered, ‘It sends a jet of water out to wash the private parts in the lavatory.'

Alva shook her head. ‘I remember now, I've heard of it. Don't see it taking off here, somehow.'

Edith leaned over and said, ‘Well, apart from hygiene, I rather like it—the bidet—as something of, well, a
refreshment
. And, let's face it, paper alone hardly does the trick.'

They both giggled in their old way.

‘Edith! There, you see, you are
Continental
now.'

‘Perhaps only in
that
way.'

They laughed again.

Alva frowned and returned to her fascination with the fascists. ‘I imagine that some of those European clubs could do with a clean-up. Maybe there's a place for fascists in places like that, surely? We need more self-policing, don't you think?'

Edith perceived the dreamy state of admiration for fascists in Alva, something which she'd encountered in others back in Geneva. Even in the League. She felt like shaking her. ‘It's not the Australian or British way, Alva. Things should be researched, talked out and voted on. Give and take.'

‘What about your League of Nations stuff? Isn't that a faith? Which a gang of countries is trying to impose on the world?'

She had not expected to find herself so far apart from Alva.