“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.