‘Christ!’ said Mountolive in a surprised whisper, to himself rather than to his Maker. He added ‘Thank you.’ His knees suddenly felt weak. For once he had to study to achieve his air of imperturbability. Surely he was still too young? The ramblings of the Chaplain, who resembled a swordfish, filled him with more than the usual irritation. He clenched his teeth. Inside his mind he heard himself repeating the words: ‘To get out of Russia!’ with ever-growing wonder. His heart leaped inside him.
At last the service ended and they trailed dolorously out of the ballroom and across the polished floors of the Residence, coughing and whispering. He managed to counterfeit a walk of slow piety, though it hardly matched his racing mind. But once in the Chancery, he closed the padded door slowly behind him, feeling it slowly suck up the air into its valve as it sealed, and then, drawing a sharp breath, clattered down the three flights of stairs to the wicket-gate which marked the entry to Archives. Here a duty-clerk dispensed tea to a couple of booted couriers who were banging the snow from their gloves and coats. The canvas bags were spread everywhere on the floor waiting to be loaded with the mail and chained up. Hoarse good-mornings followed him to the cipher-room door where he tapped sharply and waited for Miss Steele to let him in. She was smiling grimly. ‘I know what you want’ she said. ‘It’s in the tray — the Chancery copy. I’ve had it put in your tray and given a copy to the Secretary for H.E.’
She bent her pale head once more to her codes. There it was, the flimsy pink membrane of paper with its neatly typed message. He sat down in a chair and read it over slowly twice. Lit a cigarette. Miss Steele raised her head. ‘May I congratulate you, sir?’ — ‘Thank you’ said Mountolive vaguely. He reached his hands to the electric fire for a moment to warm his fingers as he thought deeply. He was beginning to feel a vastly different person. The sensation bemused him.
After a while he walked slowly and thoughtfully upstairs to his own office, still deep in this new and voluptuous dream. The curtains had been drawn back — that meant that his secretary had come in; he stood for a while watching the sentries cross and recross the snowlit entrance to the main gate with its ironwork piled heavily with ice. While he stood there with his dark eyes fixed upon an imagined world lying somewhere behind this huge snowscape, his secretary came in. She was smiling with jubilance. ‘It’s come at last’ she said. Mountolive smiled slowly back. ‘Yes. I wonder if H.E. will stand in my way?’
‘Of course not’ she said emphatically. ‘Why should he?’
Mountolive sat once more at his familiar desk and rubbed his chin. ‘He himself will be off in three months or so’ said the girl. She looked at him curiously, almost angrily, for she could read no pleasure, no self-congratulation in his sober expression. Even good fortune could not pierce that carefully formulated reserve. ‘Well’ he said slowly, for he was still swaddled by his own amazement, the voluptuous dream of an unmerited success. ‘We shall see.’ He had been possessed now by another new and even more vertiginous thought. He opened his eyes widely as he stared at the window. Surely now, he would at long last be free to
‘There’s no hurry’ said Mountolive. He felt that his real life now stretched before him; he was about to be reborn. ‘I don’t see my
And then, side by side with this sense of exhilaration, came a twinge of characteristic meanness. Mountolive like most people who have nobody on whom to lavish affection, tended towards meanness in money matters. Unreasonable as it was, he suddenly felt a pang of depression at the thought of the costly dress uniform which his new position would demand. Only last week there had been a catalogue from Skinners showing a greatly increased scale for Foreign Service uniforms.
He got up and went into the room next door to see the private secretary. It was empty. An electric fire glowed. A lighted cigarette smoked in the ashtray beside the two bells marked respectively ‘
It would be useless to call on his Chief before midday, for the morning in Russia afflicted Sir Louis with a splenetic apathy which often made him unresponsive to ideas; and while he could not, in all conscience, do anything to qualify Mountolive’s good fortune, he might easily show pique at not having been consulted according to custom by the Principal Private Secretary. Anyway. He retired to his now empty office and plunged into the latest copy of
Merritt the valet was starting up the staircase with a tray containing a cocktail shaker full of Martini and a single glass. He was a pale heavily-built man who cultivated the gravity of a churchwarden while he moved about his tasks in the Residence. He stopped as Mountolive drew level and said hoarsely: ‘He’s just up and dressing for a duty lunch, sir.’ Mountolive nodded and passed him, taking the stairs two at a time. The servant turned back to the buttery to add a second glass to his tray.
Sir Louis whistled dispiritedly at his own reflection in the great mirror as he dressed himself. ‘Ah, my boy’ he said vaguely as Mountolive appeared behind him. ‘Just dressing. I know, I know. It’s my unlucky day. Chancery rang me at eleven. So you have done it at last. Congratulations.’
Mountolive sat down at the foot of the bed with relief to find the news taken so lightly. His Chief went on wrestling with a tie and a starched collar as he said: ‘I suppose you’ll want to go off at once, eh? It’s a loss to us.’
‘It would be convenient’ admitted Mountolive slowly.
‘A pity. I was hoping you’d see me out. But anyway’ he made a flamboyant gesture with a disengaged hand ‘you’ve done it. From tricorne and dirk to bicorne and sword — the final apotheosis.’ He groped for cuff-links and went on thoughtfully. ‘Of course, you could stay a bit; it’ll take time to get
‘I have quite a lot of leave due’ said Mountolive with the faintest trace of firmness underlying his diffident tone. Sir Louis retired to the bathroom and began scrubbing his false teeth under the tap. ‘And the next Honours List?’ he shouted into the small mirror on the wall. ‘You’ll wait for that?’
‘I suppose.’ Merritt came in with the tray and the old man shouted ‘Put it anywhere. An extra glass?’
‘Yes sir.’
As the servant retired closing the door softly behind him, Mountolive got up to pour the cocktail. Sir Louis was talking to himself in a grumbling tone. ‘It’s damn hard on the Mission. Well, anyway, David, I bet your first reaction to the news was: now I’m free to act, eh?’ He chuckled like a fowl and returned to his dressing-table in a good humour. His junior paused in the act of pouring out, startled by such unusual insight. ‘How on earth did you know that?’ he said, frowning. Sir Louis gave another self-satisfied cluck.
‘We all do. We all do. The final delusion. Have to go through it like the rest of us, you know. It’s a tricky moment. You find yourself throwing your weight about — committing the sin against the Holy Ghost if you aren’t careful.’
‘What would that be?’
‘In diplomacy it means trying to build a policy on a minority view. Everyone’s weak spot. Look how often we are tempted to build something on the Right here. Eh? Won’t do. Minorities are no use unless they’re prepared to
