credit, betrayed him to his doom. But, incomprehensibly, doom in the
sense (whatever sense that was) in which it had overtaken his
fellow-delegates, was after all averted. He did not disappear into
silence as they had. On the contrary, the kindly old woman who had
rushed from the front window and bent over him as he lay unconscious
on the stair-head, saw him presently open his eyes and stir, and heard
the faint, bewildered murmur of "to hell with the Pope," which is
what Orangemen say mechanically when they come to, as others may say,
"Where am I?"
Very soon he sat up, dizzily.
"I was chloroformed," he said, "by some damned Republican. Where is
the chap? Don't let him make off."
But he was informed that this person had already disappeared. When the
old lady of the house, hearing him fall, had come out and found him,
there had been no trace of either his assaulter or of the chloroformed
towel. The kindly old lady was almost inclined to think that monsieur
must have fainted, and fancied the Republican, the chloroform, and the
attack.
Fergus Macdermott, who never either fainted or fancied, assured her
that this was by no means the case.
"It's part, no doubt," he said, "of this Sinn Fein plot against
delegates. Why they didn't put it through in my case I can't say. I
suppose they heard you coming.... But what on earth did they _mean_ to
do with me? Now, madame, we must promptly descend and make inquiries
as to who was seen to leave your front door just now. There is no
time to be lost.... Only I feel so infernally giddy...."
The inquiries he made resulted in little. Some standers-by had seen
two men leave the house a few minutes since, but had observed nothing,
neither what they were like nor where they went. No, it had not been
observed that they were of South Irish aspect.
It seemed hopeless to track them. The old lady said that she lived
there alone with her husband, above the shop; but that, of course, any
scoundrel might stray into it while the door stood open, and lurk in
ambush.
"How did they guess that the old lady was going to invite me in?"
Macdermott wondered. "If they did guess, that is, and if it was really
part of the anti-delegate campaign. Of course, if not, they may merely
have guessed she should ask some one (it may be her habit), and hidden
in ambush to rob whoever it might be. But they didn't rob me.... It
could be that this good old lady was in the plot herself, no less, for
all she speaks so civil. But who is to prove that, I ask you? It's
queer and strange...."
Thus pondering, Fergus Macdermott took a cab and drove to the hotel
where he was to dine with Garth, the representative of the _Morning
Post_. He would be doing Garth a good turn to let him get in with the
tale before the other papers; he would be able to wire it home
straight away. The _Morning Post_ deserved that: a sound paper it was,
and at times the only one in England that got hold of and stated the
Truth. This attack on Macdermott proved conclusively to his mind, what
he and the _Morning Post_ had from the first suspected and said, that
the Irish Republicans were at the back of the whole business, helped,
as usual, by German and Bolshevik money.
"Ah, this proves it," said Macdermott, his blue eyes very bright in
his white face as he drove along.
As to the procession, he had forgotten all about it.
31
Mademoiselle Bjornsen, substitute delegate for one of the Scandinavian
countries, a doctor of medicine, and a woman of high purpose and
degree, of the type which used to be called, in the old days when it
flourished in Great Britain, _feminist_, often walked out in the
evening for a purpose which did her great credit. She was of those
good and disinterested women who care greatly for the troubles of
their less fortunate, less well-educated and less well-principled
sisters, and who often patrol streets in whatever city they happen to
find themselves, with a view to extending the hand of succour to those
of their sex who appear to be in error or in need.
On this evening of the 8th of September, Mlle. Bjornsen was starting
out, after her dinner at the Hôtel Richemond, on her nightly patrol,
when she was joined by Mlle. Binesco from Roumania, a lady whose rich
and exuberant personality was not, perhaps, wholly in accord with her
own more austere temperament, but whom she acknowledged to abound in
good intentions and sisterly pity for the unfortunate of her sex. For
her part, Mlle. Binesco did not regard Mlle. Bjornsen as a very
womanly woman, but respected her integrity and business-like methods,
and felt her to be, perhaps, an effective foil to herself. It may be
observed that there are in this world mental females, mental males,
and mental neutrals. You may know them by their conversation. The
mental females, or womanly women, are apt to talk about clothes,
children, domestics, the prices of household commodities, love
affairs, or personal gossip. Theirs is rather a difficult type of
conversation to join in, as it is above one's head. Mental males, or
manly men, talk about sport, finance, business, animals, crops, or how
things are made. Theirs is also a difficult type of conversation to
join in, being also above one's head. Male men as a rule, like female
women, and vice versa; they do not converse, but each supplies the
other with something they lack, so they gravitate together and make
happy marriages. In between these is the No-Man's Land, filled with
mental neutrals of both sexes. They talk about all the other things,
such as books, jokes, politics, love (as distinct from love affairs),
people, places, religion (in which, though they talk more about it,
they do not, as a rule, believe so unquestioningly as do the males and
the females, who have never thought about it and are rather shocked if
it is mentioned), plays, music, current fads and scandals, public
persons and events, newspapers, life, and anything else which turns
up. Their conversation is easy to join in, as it is not above one's
head. They gravitate together, and often marry each other, and are
very happy. If one of them makes a mistake and marries a mental male
or a mental female, the marriage is not happy, for they demand
conversation and interest in things in general, and are answered only
by sex; they tell what they think is a funny story, and meet the
absent eye and mechanical smile of one who is thinking how to turn a
heel or a wheel, how to sew a frock or a field, how most cheaply to
buy shoes or shares. And they themselves are thought tiresome, queer,
unsympathetic, unwomanly or unmanly, by the more fully sexed partner
they have been betrayed by love's blindness into taking unto
themselves.
This is one of life's more frequent tragedies, but had not affected
either Mlle. Binesco, who was womanly, and had always married (so to
speak) manly men, or Mlle. Bjornsen, who was neutral, and had not
married any one, having been much too busy.
Anyhow, these two ladies were at one in their quest to-night. Both,
whatever their minds might be like, had warm feminine hearts. Geneva,
that godly Calvinist city, was a poor hunting-ground on the whole for
them. But they turned their steps to the old _cité_, rightly believing
that among those ancient and narrow streets vice might, if anywhere,
flit by night.
"These wicked traffickers in human flesh and blood," observed Mlle.
Binesco sighing (for she was rather stout), as they ascended the Rue
de la Cité; "do not tell me they are not somehow behind the mysterious
assaults on our unhappy comrades of the League. Never tell me so, for
I will not believe it."
"I will not tell you so," Mlle. Bjornsen, an accurate person, replied,
"for I know nothing at all about it, nor does any one else. But to me
it seems improbable, I sometimes think, mademoiselle, that there is
some danger that the preoccupation which women like ourselves
naturally feel with the suppression of this cruel trade and the rescue
of its victims, may at times lead us into obsession or exaggeration. I
try to guard myself against that. Moderation and exactitude are
important."
"Ah, there speaks the north. For me, mademoiselle, I cannot be
moderate; it is a quality alien to my perhaps over-impetuous
temperament. I have never been cautious--neither in love, hate, nor in
the taking of risks. You will realise, Mademoiselle, that the risk you
and I are taking to-night is considerable. Have we not been warned not
to penetrate into the more squalid parts of the city by night? And we
are not only delegates, but women. At any moment we might be attacked
and carried off to some dwelling of infamy, there to wait deportation
to another land."
"I do not expect it," replied the Scandinavian lady, who had a sense
of humour.
A shrill giggle broke on their ears from a side street. Glancing down
it, they saw a young girl, wearing like flags the paint and manner of
her profession, and uttering at intervals its peculiar cry--that
shrill, harsh laugh which had drawn the ladies' attention.
"Ah!" a coo of satisfaction came from Mlle. Binesco. "_Voilà une
pauvre petite!_"
As the girl saw them, she darted away from them down the alley,
obviously suspicious of their intentions. Quickly they followed; here,
obviously, was a case for assistance and rescue.
The kind mouth of Mlle. Bjornsen set in determination; her intelligent
eyes beamed behind their glasses.
The girl fluttered in front of them, still uttering the peculiar cry
of her species, which to the good ladies was a desperate appeal for
help, till she suddenly bolted beneath a low, dark archway.
The ladies hesitated. Then, "I must follow her, poor girl," Mlle.
Bjornsen remarked simply, for the courage of a thousand Scandinavian
heroes beat in her blood.
"And where you adventure, my dear friend," cried Mlle. Binesco, "I, a
Roumanian woman and a friend of kings, will not be behind! We advance,
then, in the name of humanity and of our unhappy sex!"
32
Humanity, compassion, womanly sympathy, and devotion to the cause of
virtue--by these noble qualities these two poor ladies were lured to
their fate. For it should be by now superfluous to say that, though
they entered that archway, they did not emerge from it.
33
There also disappeared that night the good Albanian bishop,
betrayed by who knew what of episcopal charity and response to
appeals for succour from his fellow-countrymen, the helpless
sheep of his flock, threatened by the wolfish atrocities of the
ineffable Serb-Croat-Slovenes.
It did indeed seem that this unseen hand was taking the highest
types of delegate for its purposes so mysterious and presumably
so fell.
34
Every one turned next morning with interest to the day's issue of
"Press Opinions" to discover what the world's newspapers were saying
of the tragic and extraordinary state of affairs in Geneva. They were
saying, it seemed, on the whole, very much what might be expected of
them. The American press, for instance, observed that the League,
without the support of the United States, was obviously falling into
the state of disruption and disintegration which had long since been
prophesied. What was to be expected, when the Monroe Doctrine was
being threatened continually by the bringing before the League of
disputes between the South and Central American republics, disputes
which, being purely American, could not possibly be settled by
European intervention in any shape or form? On this question of the
Monroe Doctrine, the security and utility of the whole League
rested.... It was rumoured that it was the shaky attitude of the
League on this point that was responsible for its present collapse....
("Seems very like saying that America is behind the whole game,"
commented many readers.)
The French press commented on the fact that no one had yet dared to
lay a hand on the French delegates. "Whatever," it said, "may be
thought of the other delegates, the whole world has agreed to see in
France a nation so strong, so beneficent, and so humane, that it
merits the confidence of humanity at large. Without it, no affairs
could flourish. The tribute to the prestige of France evinced by this
notable omission of assault cannot but be gratifying to all who love
France. With the tragic disappearance of several English-speaking
delegates, it might perhaps be natural to dispense with the tedious
use of two languages where only one is necessary. No one listens to
the interpretations into English of French speakers; the general
chatter of voices and movement which immediately starts when the
English interpreter begins, is surely sign enough of the general
feeling on this point...."
The more nationalist section of the Italian press--the _Popolo
d'Italia_, for instance--prophesied, with tragic accuracy, that the
Albanian delegate would very soon be among the victims of this
criminal plot, in which it was not, surely, malicious to detect
Yugo-Slav agency. It also spoke with admiration of the poet Dante.
The Swiss press, in much distress, urged the clearing up of this
tragic mystery, which so foully stained the records of the noble city
of Geneva, so beautiful in structure, so chaste in habits, so
idealistic in outlook, the centre of the intellectual thought of
Europe, and, above all, so cheap to live in. For their part (so said
_La Suisse_), they attributed these outrages to criminal agents from
the hotels and shops of Brussels, Vienna, and other cities which might
be mentioned, who had been sent to discredit Geneva as a safe and
suitable home for the League. Fortunately, however, such discrediting
was impossible: on the contrary, the cities discredited were the
above-mentioned, which had hatched and put into execution such a
wicked plot.
The extracts selected from the British press spoke with various
voices. The _Morning Post_ commented, without much distress, on the
obvious disintegration and collapse of the League, which had always
had within itself the seeds of ruin and now was meeting its expected
Nemesis. Such preposterous houses of cards, said the _Morning Post_,
cannot expect to last long in a world which is, in the main, a
sensible place. It did not now seem probable that, as some said,
Bolshevists were behind these outrages; on further consideration it
was not even likely to be Irish traitors; for these sections of the
public would doubtless approve the League, typical as it was of the
folly which so strongly actuated themselves. Far more likely was it
that their assaults were the work, misguided but surely excusable, of
the Plain Man, irritated at last to execute judgment on these frenzied
and incompetent efforts after that unprofitable dream of the
visionary, a world peace. It was well known that the question of
disarmament was imminent....
The _British Bolshevist_ (its leader, not its correspondent, who
seldom got quoted by the _Press Bulletin_) agreed with the _Morning
Post_ that the house of cards was collapsing because of its inherent
vices, but was inclined to think that the special vice for which it
was suffering retribution was its failure to deal faithfully with
Article 18 of the Covenant, which concerned the publicity of treaties.
The _British Bolshevist_ always had Article 18 a good deal on its
mind.
The _Times_ said that these strange happenings showed the importance
of keeping on frank and friendly terms (the _Times_ often used these
two incompatible adjectives as if they were synonymous) with France.
They served to emphasise and confirm that _entente_ of which the
British people were resolved to suffer no infringement.
The _Daily News_ thought that the enemies of disarmament and of the
various humanitarian efforts of the League were responsible for these
assaults.
The _Manchester Guardian_ correspondent said that at last the
Assembly, formerly a little dull, had taken on all the interest of a
blood and thunder melodrama....
35
The days went by, and the nights. Why dwell on them, or, in detail,
on the strange--or rather the now familiar, but none the less
sinister--events which marked each? One could tell of the disappearance,
one after another, of the prominent members of the Council--of the
decoy of Signor Nelli, the chief Italian delegate, by messengers as from
Fiume with strange rumours of Jugo-Slav misdeeds; of the sudden
disappearance of Latin Americans from the Casino, whither they had gone
to chat, to drink, and to play; of the silent stealing away of rows
upon rows of Japanese, none knew how or why; of how Kristna, the
distinguished Indian, was lured to meet a supposed revealer of a Ghandi
anti-League plot.
As full-juiced apples, waxing over-mellow, drop in a silent autumn
night, so dropped these unhappy persons, delegate by delegate, to
their unguessed at doom. And it would indeed appear as if there were
some carefully deliberated design against the welfare of the League,
for gradually it appeared that those taken had, on the whole, this
welfare more at heart than those left; their ideals were more pacific,
their hearts more single, their minds more League.
The Turkish delegation, for example, did not disappear. Nor the
Russian, nor the German, nor the Greek, nor the Serb-Croat-Slovene.
In the hands of those left, the Assembly and its committees were less
dangerous to the wars of the world than they had been before. The
best, from a League stand-point, were gone. What, for instance, would
happen to the disarmament question should it be brought up, with the
most ardent members of the disarmament committee thus removed from the
scene? But, indeed, how could that or any other question be brought
up, in the present state of agitation, when all minds were set on the
one problem, on how to solve this appalling mystery that spread its
tentacles further every day? The only committee which sat, or
attempted any business, was Committee 9, on the Disappearance of
Delegates--and that was signally impotent to do more than meet, pass
resolutions, and report on unavailing measures taken.
The other committees, on humanitarian questions, on intellectual,
financial, economic, political, and transit questions, were struck
helpless. Not a frontier dispute, not an epidemic, not a drug, not so
much as a White Slave, could be discussed. Truly the very League
itself seemed struck to the heart. All the Assembly could do was meet,
vote, pass resolutions, and make speeches about the horrors of the
next war and the necessity of thwarting the foul plot against the
wellbeing of the League.
Meanwhile Central Europe rumbled, as usual, indeed as always,
with disputes that might at any moment become blows. Affairs in
Jugo-Slavia, in Hungary, in Greece, in Albania, in Czecho-Slovakia,
in Poland, and in Russia, were not quiet. Greece and Turkey were
hideously at war. Nor were the South and Central American republics
free from unrest. Russia was reaching out its evil White hands
to grasp and weld again into a vast unhappy whole its former
constituent republics of Ukraine, Lithuania, Latvia, Esthonia,
Tauride, and White Russia. There seemed every chance that it would
shortly succeed in doing so. The nations growled everywhere like
sullen dogs on fragile chains. Never had the League of Nations, in
all its brief career, been more necessary, never less available. Not
a grievance could be given that public airing from what is called a
world platform, which is so beneficial to the airers, so apt at
promoting fraternal feeling, so harmless to all concerned. Instead,
grievances festered and went bad, and blood-poisoning was rapidly
setting in. Not a voice could be raised, as many voices would have
been raised, from that world-platform, to urge contending parties to
refer their differences to the Court of International Justice, so
ready and eager to adjudicate, to apply international conventions,
whether general or particular, international custom as evidence for
a general practice accepted as law, and teachings of the most highly
qualified publicists as subsidiary means for the determination of
rules of law. For all this is what these aged and wise judges
sitting at the Hague were equipped and ready to do, if only the
nations would ask them to do it. But it was not to be expected
that the nations should make use of such a strange procedure for
themselves, unless prompted and even urged thereto by the weight of
opinion in the Assembly.
Yes, Europe, and indeed the world, was, as always, in a parlous
state, rushing on ruin with no hand raised to give it pause, even as
in the evil old days before the conception and foundation of the
League. The journalists were as busy as, and more profoundly happy
than, they would have been had the Assembly been running its appointed
course. They ran about picking up clues, Marconi-graphing messages to
their papers about the latest disappearances, the latest theories, the
newest rumours. Each became a private detective, pursuing a lone
trail. Other journalists flocked to the scene; where they had come in
their tens, they now came in their hundreds, for here was News. The
Assembly of the League of Nations is not News, until it stumbles on
mystery and disaster, becoming material for a shocker. The meeting
together of organisations for the betterment of the world is not News,
in the sense that their failure is. Deeply Henry, going about his
secret and private business, intent and absorbed, pondered this
question of News, what it is and what it is not. Crime is News;
divorce is News; girl mothers are News; fabric gloves and dolls' eyes
are, for some unaccountable reason, News; centenaries of famous men
are, for some still stranger reason, News; railway accidents are News;
the wrong-doing of clergymen is News; strangest of all, women are,
inherently and with no activities on their part, News, in a way that
men are not. Henry had often thought this very singular. He had read
in accounts of public gatherings (such as criminal trials, tennis
tournaments, boxing matches, etc.), such statements as "There were
many well-dressed women present." These women had done nothing to
deserve their fame; they were merely present, just as men were. But
never had Henry read, "There were many well-dressed men present," for
men were not News. To be News in oneself, without taking any
preliminary action--that was very exciting for women. A further
question arose: were women News to their own sex, or only to men? And
were men perhaps News to women? "There were many well-dressed men
present." ... Ah, that would be exciting reading for women, and
perhaps a woman reporter would thrill to it and set it down. But men
do not care how many men were present, or how well they were dressed,
or what colour their hats and suits were. All sorts of articles and
letters appear in the papers about women. Profound questions are
raised concerning them. Should they smoke? Should they work? Vote?
Take Orders? Marry? Exist? Are not their skirts too short, or their
sleeves? Have they a sense of humour, of honour, of direction? Are
spinsters superfluous? But how seldom similar inquiries are propounded
about men. How few persons discuss superfluous bachelors, or whether
the male arm or leg is an immodest sight, or whether men should vote.
For men are not News.
Anyhow, thought Henry, anyhow delegates became News the moment they
disappeared. If you do wrong you are News, and if you have a bad
accident, you are News, but if you mysteriously disappear, you are
doubly and trebly News. To be News once in one's life--that is
something for a man. Though sometimes it comes too late to be
enjoyed.
36