Dark Palace (32 page)

‘One wonders, if treaties are so unreliable and so much trouble, why we need so many,' Powell said.

She batted back. ‘Well, things are changing about treaties. At last, all treaties are public. They are all registered with the League and open to inspection by all parties. In fact, for the first time in history, the world is a party to every treaty—the League, in a sense, is now a signatory to every treaty. The recent Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of Alliance allows for revision if necessary, but only by the League Council. That's the new thinking on treaties.'

Bring them up to the mark on treaties.

Discussion was robust here in Sydney, to say the least. No small talk here.

And what about your marriage contract, Edith? There was perhaps no safety even in the contract of people pledged to love. That contract was nothing more than a signing up for the effort or intention of the two people to avoid risk, to find safety. Or could one only find safety with those who knew that there was no safety?

The partnership of the frightened?

She didn't feel that much at risk though, with Ambrose. But she supposed they
accepted
, both of them, that there was no contract, that they lived from day to day. Another hopeless manoeuvre to avoid putting the heart at risk.

In the refectory, they sat at a reserved table. After much shuffling around, she was placed facing into the dining hall, in the middle.

‘Of course, there's the Doctrine of Frustration,' Powell said, buttering a slice of bread as soon as he'd sat down. ‘Where circumstances arise between two parties which neither party to a contract could have foreseen, the contract is then set aside.'

‘That applies, as I understand it, only in civil law,' she said. ‘And the contract still cannot be set aside by the action of one party.'

She knew that much law, if they were all to play lawyers.

‘
Mutatis mutandis
—other things being equal,' said Black, having found another Latin tag in his bag of tricks. ‘And with those things being changed which must change.'

They all laughed knowingly.

‘Many things in civil law are not to be found in international law,' said Elkin.

‘Contracts signed by force?' said Follan, sounding like a smart student rushing out an answer. ‘In civil law if a contract is signed because of threat of force it's invalid. But internationally, many treaties are imposed on defeated nations by force.'

‘Treaty of Versailles, for one,' said Black quickly.

‘At the end of every war—and some of these imposed treaties last,' she said.

My goodness, she thought, although they were not against
her
as such, it did feel as if she were in a Hollywood cowboy picture with the baddies and the goodies shooting up and down the streets.

The students at the end seemed to be sitting in some awe at the exchange.

All those at the table, she decided, were taking her measure.

She added, ‘I do agree that treaties on matters of war and peace seem to be simply descriptions of a prevailing mood—which can soon change.'

‘Everyone signed the Kellogg-Briand Pact and the Locarno treaties to end war forever,' said Powell. ‘That was done with great confidence. People trusted those treaties. Now Germany and Italy have just torn them up.'

‘But the treaties supervising the airwaves and sea waves, postal service and so on, seem to be useful rules of the game,' Edith said, trying to salvage some respect for international diplomacy. ‘Florence Nightingale once said that people who will keep a vow would do their duty without a vow; but people who will not do their duty without a vow cannot be relied upon to do it with one. But I don't agree. We need rules and agreements to keep us on track. They're usually the distillation of long past arguments. Wisdom of the tribe.'

‘I can't see why we bother with treaties at all,' said Alva, finding the confidence to join in.

Edith smiled encouragingly at Alva and said, ‘I once asked the same question of Under Secretary-General Auguste Bartou. And I remember that he replied, “Because they sometimes work.” We make treaties because they might be kept.'

That sounded too
instructional
.

These were university dons she was talking with. Perhaps deference might be a better demeanour.

‘Give me a good example of a long-lasting treaty,' Black asked.

That was easy. ‘The Rush-Bagot Treaty—one of the oldest in the book,' she said, also sounding too much like a bright girl in a classroom. Though she reminded herself that she was older than most of them and more experienced perhaps than any of them. It was being back in the university grounds that
had caused her to shrink like Alice in Wonderland. She was growing back to her right size.

‘The United States and Canada,' said Black, his memory having thrown it up. ‘The disarming of the Great Lakes?'

She was touched to see him seeking her approval.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Between Canada, America and Great Britain. After the Canadians and the British burned down the White House. A treaty which has lasted.'

She'd learned a thing or two in Geneva and she may as well promenade her learning.

‘Rather than
rebus sic stantibus
…' she said, deciding to lighten things and to round this discussion off ‘… I prefer, for the likes of us, the motto
sidere mens eadem mutato
—“though the sky be changed our spirit is the same …”,' putting in the translation quickly with just the right tone to suggest that, of course, they would all know it, the tone suggesting she was simply refreshing her own understanding of the term.

Two of the men patted the table in approval.

‘Oh gosh—it's the university motto and you remember it!' said Alva.

One of the undergraduates—McAuley?—ventured a quip, ‘My translation is “although the facts may changeth: our opinions remaineth the same”.'

Much laughter.

The food was served. Ah, Union food, but the superior menu perhaps? It was really Windsor soup, two joints and mixed vegetables, and wine trifle. Only two bottles of wine among them all.

She removed her gloves, placing them in the handbag glove loop.

They were perhaps too fashionable. She wouldn't wear them during her talk.

Black said, ‘Let's have a lighter conversation before we thoroughly depress ourselves. Tell us about the Palais des Nations.'

‘That's one thing the League has started and will complete,' she said, laughing. ‘We have moved house although the Assembly room is still being completed and a few other parts. I love the Palais. Dignified and practical. But …'

‘What's the “but”,' Black asked.

‘I won't criticise the first building the world has built together.'

‘I think you should tell us your “but”.'

‘For my tastes, the Assembly hall is too ornate,' she said. ‘But the Assembly will try it out for the first time next year. By the way, the rostrum is made from Australian woods. We were the first nation to make a gift to the League.'

She made a gesture of bleakness. ‘In the days when we were really achieving things we were in the shabby Palais Wilson which I also loved. Now in these inglorious days we are ineffective and frustrated—but living in a Palace. And I'm being gloomy again.'

Again, some dark laughter.

‘And,' she announced, ‘I'm going to order another two bottles of wine—on my account. To say “happily returned” to my alma mater.'

She felt the undergraduates deserved it. She'd wait for later.

‘Hear, hear.'

‘A generous gesture,' said Elkin.

Then with vehemence, a demand, a cry, from the man Powell, ‘Italy's as good as out of the League. Germany's out. Brazil is out. Japan's out. The US is never going to join. It's all over. Admit it. It's all done for. Disarmament Conference has died. Rearmament has begun.'

‘Costa Rica has also withdrawn,' added Black.

She felt compelled to keep up morale. ‘We have gained the Dominican Republic, Ireland, Iraq, Mexico, and Turkey.'

‘And the USSR,' said Follan. ‘Which shows that the USSR at least remains international in its thinking even if the Americans do not.'

‘Yes, and the USSR. A rather important new member,' she said.

‘To what end have they joined?' Powell said to Follan.

She hadn't told them that Guatemala and Honduras and Nicaragua were all pulling out because they couldn't pay. ‘I think the League gains are still ahead of the losses. On last count.'

Powell wasn't to be placated. ‘We have to admit that disarmament is dead.'

He stared at her, waiting for her response. The others were obviously uncomfortable but not surprised by Powell's persistent irritation.

To give the official line or to speak her heart?

In a measured voice, she said, ‘If it were all over, I wouldn't still be there working for it—nor other Australians such as Duncan Hall and this year Australia's chair of the Council, Stanley Bruce. We all believe there's something to be done. There are all the health projects—and even the US is enthusiastically contributing to those—there's lots of good things still going on.'

She hadn't answered his question.

‘But it cannot keep the peace!' the man Powell almost shouted.

‘Easy on, Enoch,' said Elkin. ‘It's a lunch, not a rally.'

‘And we're all on the same side,' said Black.

Again, Edith spoke quietly and slowly, with control, ‘Disputes, yes, admittedly minor, are still settled by the League. The Moslem countries are using Geneva as a meeting place to deal with their problems and emerging as nation states out of their mandates. Iraq is now a nation and a member of the League. Things like that.'

Alva then spoke up. ‘You have to agree with Mr Powell that one of the great illusions of the League is already flat, the illusion of disarmament. It may still be “peace for all nations”, but it'll have to be an armed peace.'

It was something Alva had obviously been burning to say and had, by the sound of it, prepared somewhat before coming. It sounded like she'd decided she should have her say. It all came out in a lump.

And, Edith noted, it was, possibly, a speech against her. It was—she further noted—also Mussolini's newly stated position.

Edith looked at Alva, smiling but quietly wondering about her.

Since coming back she had not had a long talk with Alva about her politics. And their letters had been so sporadic and light-hearted they'd given no clear view of what Alva had been thinking over the years.

‘Mussolini sometimes makes sense,' Edith said, showing that she recognised the line of thought. ‘But I don't think we should quote him.'

The men laughingly agreed. Alva laughed half-heartedly but appeared squashed.

She hadn't wanted to squash Alva. She'd make it up to her later.

Despite her confident clubby manner, Edith felt enfeebled as she heard the disheartened tone of the luncheon group. What could she say? How could she be Doctor Cheerup?

‘The nutrition report is very good,' she heard herself say.

Oh God, was that the best she could do?

‘Treating illnesses, feeding the children …' She felt her head drooping—she was speaking to the breadbasket.

Head up, shoulders back, Edith.

‘Health is a foundation for order—through people who are healthier, through their well-being.'

Oh, it was all so limp. Edith felt like McGeachy from Information Section struggling to interest reporters. It was rather pathetic to base the hope for peace on free Oslo lunches and milk for school children and getting people to eat breakfast.

Oh dear.

‘Maybe,' she joked, ‘Italians wouldn't go to war if they ate breakfast. We are trying to get them to eat a proper breakfast. The coffee may irritate their stomachs. Lead to troublesome digestions.'

They laughed.

Elkin asked politely what interest there was in the Australian initiatives on fairer distribution of food in the world.

‘Very little, I'm afraid,' she said. And then looked at them and grimaced, ‘None. No interest at all.'

Dr Cheerup said, ‘We've produced tables recommending diets according to occupation. World-wide.'

Oh dear, it was getting worse.

Hay-rake diplomacy.

Abruptly, she felt as if she were Ambrose—Ambrose and the hay-rake fiasco. A few years ago Ambrose, in the midst of what turned out to be a nervous collapse, had seen the solution to the world's ills in more efficient agricultural machinery—in fact, specifically, in a new design for a hay-rake. Ambrose had cracked up after making this submission.

Perhaps she was cracking up.

The League was cracking up—the League was close to having a nervous collapse.

That was the truth of the matter.

‘Did the League determine how much a professor should eat?' Elkin joked, trying to lead them out of their gloom.

Everyone laughed.

‘Should be less than a student,' one of the undergraduates said from the end of the table. ‘Students have much healthier appetites.'

They all laughed and heads looked to the student who blushed with the success of his quip. The student, suddenly aware of all the attention he had captured, added, ‘I would've thought.'

‘We're doing nutritional surveys of Australian families,'
Black said. ‘For the first time, we will have a picture of what Australians eat. They don't eat enough greens. We know that much.'

Elkin tapped his watch and indicated it was time for them all to stroll across to the lecture theatre. ‘Don't know what happened to Miss Wedgewood.'

Edith's confidence and sense of mission had dwindled. She felt flat.

She felt hurt, too, that the Principal of Women's College hadn't shown up to have lunch and given support to an old girl.