Grand Days

by Frank Moorhouse

  About the Book

  On a train from Paris to Geneva, where they will take up posts at the newly created League of Nations, Edith Campbell Berry meets Major Ambrose Westwood in the dining car, makes his acquaintance over a lunch of six courses, and allows him to kiss her passionately. A heady idealism prevails over Edith and her young colleagues at the League of Nations, and nothing seems beyond their grasp, certainly not world peace. The exuberance of the times carries over into Geneva nights and Edith is coaxed into a dark, glamorous and sexually adventurous underworld. Brillant, funny and wise, full of shocks of revelation and recognition, Grand Days is a dazzling evocation of a golden bygone era and an unerring portrait of a woman of her times – as well as a stunning novel which speaks vividly to readers today.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Geneva in the Nineteen-Twenties

  How Edith Campbell Berry Ate Six Courses and Practised the Seven Ways in the Dining Car on the Train from Paris to Geneva

  Presenting One’s Credentials

  International Civil Cowgirl

  Entrée à la Haute Direction

  The Accepting of Gifts: Miss Dickinson’s Chair

  International Language: Scat Singing, its Ramifications, Magnitude, and Consequences

  The Question of Germany

  The Economics of Self

  The Receiving of Envoys: George McDowell Comes to Town

  Public Life (1): Cry Me a River

  Public Life (2): Return to the Molly

  Confidence and the Giving of Confidences

  Pact of Peace

  Holding the Fort: The Night Sacco and Vanzetti Died

  The Tenets of Civilisation and Various Wonders Not to Be Talked Of

  The Nature of Spies

  The Weight of the Stone

  The Key to All Predicaments

  The Dance of Negotiation

  Tramcar terminus Palais des Nations

  The Years Which Followed

  Postscript

  Historical Notes

  Rationalism

  Eugenics

  Union for Democratic Control

  The World Population Conference

  Under Secretaries-General

  How a Registry Works – an overview

  The Importance of the Duplicating Machine

  The Covenant of the League of Nations – with commentary

  Structure of the League

  Assembly

  Council

  Permanent Secretariat

  Secretary-General

  equally to men and women

  diplomatic privileges

  reduction of national armaments

  manufacture by private enterprise of munitions and implements of war

  external aggression

  arbitration

  Court of International Justice

  severance of all trade of financial relations

  Members of the League shall severally contribute to the armed forces to be used to protect the covenants of the League

  Every treaty or international engagement entered into hereafter by any Member of the League shall be forthwith registered

  Monroe Doctrine

  peoples not yet able to stand by themselves

  mandate

  fair and humane conditions of labour

  traffic in women

  traffic in opium and other dangerous drugs

  freedom of communications and of transit

  prevention and control of disease

  Red Cross

  Original Members of the League of Nations

  Who is Who in the Book

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright Page

  I thank the Australian people, who, through the Creative Fellowship program and other agencies, made this book possible.

  In particular, I thank the then Chairman of the Australian Council, Donald Horne, who with the then Australian Treasurer, Paul Keating, had the vision and will to set up the Creative Fellowship program.

  ‘The League of Nations (1920–1946) … mankind’s first effort at permanent, organised, world-wide international cooperation to prevent war and promote human well-being.’

  DR HANS AUFRICHT

  ‘The League of Nations … was a failure too bitter … it is as if it had been swept under the rug and that all its grandeur has no power to sway us now, and all its misery cannot serve to teach us.’

  EMERY KELEN, Peace in Their Time

  GENEVA IN THE NINETEEN-TWENTIES

  This book is, in part, based on the dramatic reconstruction of real people, identified by their actual names, and on fictional characters who sometimes embody features of people who existed at the time, but who are essentially fictional (see ‘Who is Who in the Book’). Where people who actually existed say anything substantial, their words are taken from documentary sources.

  All the historical and politically substantial events depicted (and quite a few of the insubstantial events) are inspired by documentary sources.

  But the book is, above all, a work of the imagination.

  How Edith Campbell Berry Ate Six Courses and Practised the Seven Ways in the Dining Car on the Train from Paris to Geneva

  On the train from Paris to Geneva, Edith Campbell Berry, at twenty-six, having heard the gong, made her way to the first sitting and her first lunch in a railway dining car.

  She moved, in what she felt was a gathered-together way, along to the dining car, having remembered not to leave anything of value back at her seat, even if it were a first-class seat, and yet not having things in her hands — something she had a phobia about, having too many things in her hands. To have free hands allowed her to ward and hold, which she considered important in the technique of travelling. It could be considered as one of her Ways of Going. She also quickly noted to herself that, in life, she wanted to be a holding person and not always a warding person, and would describe herself as a holding person in all its meanings, which she would one day list. Fear in foreign places made one a permanent sentry, and more of a warding person than one would be in a familiar place. However, as she moved along the swaying train, trying not to need to use her hands or to lose her balance, Edith considered that she conducted her body well. In travel and in life. So far.

  Her Ways of Going were mostly what she had thought about during the early part of the journey after the train had left the Gare de Lyon, especially as they applied to conversation. She had developed most of the Ways on the voyage over from Australia but they now needed refinement and further practice.

  On the train from Paris to Geneva, Edith Campbell Berry, at twenty-six, made her way to her first lunch in a railway dining car, in first class, at the first sitting, conducting herself well.

  To keep her hands free she had a sensible, leather shoulder bag with outside pockets and a glove loop, a travelling bag which had belonged to her mother and, though far from new, was well-cared for, and had a remote odour of coachaline and polish. A bag which she privately considered to have a well-bred look and although she was an egalitarian through and through, she did not mind the well-bred look or what she took to be a well-bred look. She was, after all, well-bred. The bag was an Object of Ancestry.

  She stood inside the door of the dining car and read the notice, Reclami, reclamations, complaints, more times than was necessary for comprehension, until the waiter showed her to her table.

  At her table was a man in his late thirties. The waiter said something in French about whether she minded sharing a table with a gentleman. Edith said something in French about not minding the sharing of the table with a gentleman.
The gentleman half-stood, half-bowed, holding his napkin to his lap with one hand, and smiled.

  As the waiter seated her, the man spoke in English.

  ‘I was about …’ he said, the half-sentence hovering between them. Edith watched. Edith already knew the Way of Circumspection, and she waited to see how long he would allow the sentence to hover, she holding herself ready, of course, to save things, as always. He looked away and then said, ‘… to order a sherry. Would you care to join me in a sherry?’ The sentence, having finished hovering, landed like a friendly bird.

  ‘Why, yes, I will join you in a sherry,’ she said strongly, and her joining him in the drinking of a sherry magically changed the bird into a warm cloud. The small green-shaded table lamp also now included them in its unnecessary daytime illumination, as the situation changed from what it had been — a nervous seating of two strangers at lunch in a railway dining car — into, indeed, lunch for two.

  ‘The railway catering services …’ he said incompletely, the half-sentence no longer birdlike, but now a sentence wanting to be joined, desiring the company of another part, to be overlapped by words to be given by her, the overlapping of his words with her words in the manner of sociability, a touching of a kind, not as intimate as a hand on another hand, but reflecting the nature of two strangers dining amiably. Edith joined him not with some words but with an amiable smile, which allowed him to be sure that she was within the conversation.

  ‘I have been told —’ Edith said, finding a thought forming.

  But his words nervously ran into hers. ‘Oh, but, well, let me put it this way —’

  This time she saw his words as a shawl which he was placing around her shoulder to make sure that she was, indeed, comfortably in, maybe forgetting what it was he had begun to say, or maybe it was an English way.

  From incompleteness he leapt to mock assertion. ‘I do firmly believe one thing,’ he said, firmly. He believed that, as an aperitif, sherry was coming back and that the cocktail would go, but he believed with all his heart, and thankfully, that the serving of olives with drinks would not go, and that the serving of wine biscuits would not come back now that sherry was. Then he trailed off into silence, making courteous space for her in the conversation, to let her well and truly in, and, she could tell, also trying to avoid going from half-statements to overtalking which was caused, she appraised, by his pleasure at her joining with him in conversational lunch, and maybe from his taking pleasure at the way she looked and also pleasure from her having granted him the special bond which was taken to exist between those who took alcoholic drinks together, a bond she could not analyse just now, but which had to do with sharing a heightened openness — maybe the willingness to take a small subtle risk?

  ‘Yes,’ Edith said simply, having nothing much to say in favour of wine biscuits and having eaten olives only once, and with difficulty.

  ‘What I really meant was — no, please — first you say what you intended to say earlier.’

  ‘I’d rather you went on …’

  ‘All right, then. I was going to say that the railway catering service is an institution which has few to praise it and very few indeed to love it.’ The sentence seemed quite long, given the slow start to the conversation.

  ‘I know,’ Edith hastened to say, not knowing at all, conscious that she’d agreed too quickly because of her own enthusiasm for the conversation. ‘Please, go on.’

  ‘I have never met anyone who would praise or admit to love …’ he said, then as if looking down at his words and seeing that he needed a few more, ‘… to love of the railway dining car as an institution.’

  ‘I was told never to order soup on trains,’ she said, happily finding something to say, hoping that it was, in fact, something to say. ‘And Lord Curzon says that only the middle classes have soup for luncheon.’ She felt that she would like to add a touch to this sentence, and so said, ‘And that is all I know of soup and of railway dining cars as an institution.’ Pleased with her humorous use of the Way of Companionable Confession. If only a confession of unsophistication of the minor order.

  ‘As for the first proposition,’ he said, his words slowing as he relaxed, ‘I have recently performed the train soup splash-and-spill test on the Paris Nord …’ he paused, showing on his face an effort of recollection, ‘… and on the London, Midland and Scottish,’ a further effort of recollection, ‘… and the Great Northern and, whether due to slower trains, or to twelve-wheeled bogies, or to smaller portions, I have not splashed or spilled.’ He didn’t smile when he told her this; he could very well have been correcting her. She wasn’t sure. He went on, ‘Turning now to your second proposition, did you know Lord Curzon?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘A fellow countryman, John Latham, reported that to me.’

  ‘I have heard of Latham,’ he said. ‘As it happens, I worked with Lord Curzon. Went to his funeral last month. Stood there at the service saying to myself, “My name is George Nathaniel Curzon, I am a most superior person.” And then, at the graveside, changing it to, “was a most superior person”. Lord Curzon never spoke to me of soup, but he did speak to me of inkstands.’

  ‘Inkstands?’

  ‘I was in the Foreign Office when he was Secretary of State and he called me in and pointed at the inkstand on the table and said, “A Secretary of State must have an inkstand of crystal and silver, not of brass and glass.”’

  Edith was interested to surmise that this man could be on his way to Geneva to do business with the League but she felt that on the matter of Lord Curzon she had nothing more to say. On the matter of crystal and silver inkstands and on the matter of brass and glass inkstands, she could, once started, have too much to say. She had, perhaps, a disproportionate interest in the things that went on tables, and in the decoration and design of things. To put it more precisely, she had an abiding passion for l’art de la table. Only yesterday in Paris, she had again visited the Exposition des Arts Décoratifs. For her to begin to speak at this point on such matters would bring about an avalanche of attitude from her, and she restrained herself. Instead she examined his gambit-in-response, and felt that he had not fully understood about the eating of soup on trains, or had not been listening closely; that he was, in part, pretending to understand what she’d said about soup and trains and that the theme of his answer had been more to display his travelled life than to exchange wisdom about soup and dining cars.

  She would not let it pass. Otherwise they might stray further and further from mutual understanding. She always feared that in some unforeseeable way small early confusions led later to giant embarrassments.

  ‘It is not to do so much with the soup in the plate, I am told, but more to do with the soup in the spoon on its way to the mouth. That is where the difficulty lies. It is not a problem of portions small or large in the plate. Or bogies. Further, I am told that it has to do with the unexpected stopping of the train — that’s the incontestable danger point. It jerks. The train jerks.’ She wanted him to understand, to get this soup business, at least, clear. ‘I am, of course, only told this, this being my first meal on a train.’ Throwing him another confession of unsophistication when she had not meant to. She felt the conversation stumble from her having talked too long and too intensely. It was almost lost, she thought, the easiness of the conversation, almost lost. She noticed also how much deceptive pose there was in her pedantic prattle about soup which hid her happy, inner anticipation of her first meal on a train, on the train from Paris to Geneva, with a strange man, a man she liked the look of, all of which she feared showing because her artless exhilaration would make her appear unworldly.

  ‘I see, of course.’ He tried then to fortify his statement. ‘But the size of portions and the shape of the plate can matter when the train sways at high speeds.’

  Edith felt he was on lost ground and left him there. He would, on reflection at some future time, understand her clarification on the matter of soups and trains.

  ‘I am not,’ Edith
said, courageously and wilfully deciding to save the conversation as she looked at the menu, ‘overly accustomed to six courses.’

  ‘When on a train, I would advise, but advise only …’

  Edith watched him trying to regain his leadership in the conversation’s slipping stream, a struggling British bird trying to gain altitude. He would advise her, would he?

  ‘… I would advise you to order the full obligatory six courses, for one reason only.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The killing of time.’

  ‘I shall, then,’ she said, ‘join you in the killing of time.’ She warmed to his tone.

  ‘Together, then, we shall wage utter war on time,’ he said, in a frolicking voice. She laughed. They settled now, both chuckling, perhaps more loudly than the exchange merited, but making it serve as a relaxing truce, allowing them to sit back in their chairs to read the menu and to order. She felt almost equal with him. That surprised and heartened her.

  ‘I have an idea. Why don’t each of us tell a food or wine story, with each course, an anecdote, one of us or the other,’ he said boyishly, ‘if we can, not as a task, only if we can come up with one easily, either you or I? Only if it’s fun.’