I
January 7th, 1926
I am writing this down because Jo says I must—dear, beautiful Jo, with
the great grey eyes and the maddening mouth. I tell her it is
ridiculous—that in a short month the miracle will have sunk to a
coincidence, the marvel to a curiosity. But she will have none of it:
and, since she is leaning over my shoulder and has set her blessed cheek
against mine, for what the business is worth down it shall go.
Last night we dined with the Meurices. Not of choice, but we agreed it
was politic. A refusal might have been thought bilious. It is hard to
see how, but it might. After all, I have been perfectly frank about my
resignation. Now that I am married, I cannot stay on if I am not to be
paid two-thirds of what I can earn elsewhere. And ‘The Office’ has been
equally frank and, while expressing its deepest regret, has said that
fifteen hundred for a spy is as much as it may afford. However, the
Meurices being, so to speak, brass hats, might have misconstrued our
refusal. So we went. We did not enjoy it. I cannot keep pace with these
diplomats. No doubt they’re good at their job, and all their
ice-and-brandy ways are probably part of the game. But I am a regimental
officer and I am not at ease hobnobbing with the gilded staff. I don’t
suppose they’ld ’ve been at their ease drinking with the shunters at
Carlsruhe. . . . But there you are. _Chacun à son goût._
Well, after dinner a girl—one Roach—was induced to tell our fortunes
by dealing cards from a pack. ‘Induced’ is misleading. Lady Meurice
said, “Sarah, you’ve had a good dinner: now tell us some lies.” And
Sarah replied, “’And me the seaweed, Lulu, and I’ll tell you where
Arthur wore the dog-bite.” The next minute she was off.
I’ve heard some junk in my time . . .
Presently my turn came, and I took my seat at the table and shuffled the
pack. Only pausing to take my cigarette from my mouth, use it to light
her own and then replace it between my lips, Miss Roach picked up the
cards and began the rites of prophecy.
What first she said I forget, but it was thin enough stuff. As a matter
of fact, she seemed puzzled: something—some combination, she said, kept
turning up. Finally she dropped the cards and took hold of my hand,
holding it flat on the table, palm up, and blinking at it through the
smoke of her cigarette.
“You’re on the eve of meeting someone,” she said: “someone who’ll
influence your life to an amazing extent. They’ll affect your outlook
more violently than anything else in your life. They’ll alter all your
plans. The queer thing is they’ll do it indirectly. You’ll hardly see
them at all.”
“Will they do me good or harm?”
“I can’t say. But, whichever it is, they’ll do it through somebody else.
It’s a terrific influence.”
“In fact, I shall be swept off my feet?”
She frowned.
“Not exactly. Your existence will be changed. What’s so remarkable is
that you retaliate. You’re going to influence their life even more
strongly still. Only, your influence will be direct and—and concrete.”
“Concrete?” said I.
“Physical. Theirs on you will be mental. They’ll get off first. After
they’ve influenced you, you start in on them. I should think——”
Mercifully at that moment Berwick Perowne was announced. As he was
straight from Moscow, the conjuring went by the board. I was rather
interested to see him—I’d heard so much. He’ld certainly do any staff
credit—a dazzling A.D.C. The face of a careless angel, a tongue of
silver, the impudence of the Fiend. His news left Jo and me gasping. He
gave it as though he were describing a game of Bridge. After a while we
made our excuses and left. . . .
All the way home in the taxi Jo chattered about ‘the prophecy,’ till at
last I told her that it meant that a nicer man than I was going to steal
her away, and I was going to follow and break his back. . . . She put
her arms round my neck.
Bugle was waiting for us when we got in: he’s a good little dog: he’s
never really happy unless we’re both of us there.
Sitting by the fire in the study, we discussed my resignation. Now that
the War’s past, I should have been at home a good deal—actually at home
with Jo. But we really cannot throw away twelve hundred and fifty a
year. Not that I shall have that yet—I start at fifteen hundred: but in
a year or two . . . with luck . . . And it means so much. It means a
car, frocks, flowers about the house. . . . Jo’s eyes were like stars. I
think she is the most beautiful thing I ever saw.
But I digress.
‘The Office’ rang up in the morning and wanted me down at once. I
answered the telephone in my pyjamas. Jo was twittering with excitement.
I found her, wrapped in a towel, hanging over the banisters, wild to
know if it was ‘the prophecy.’ I tried to scold her, but she refused to
be rebuked—as it happens, with good reason.
_The prophecy, or some of it, has been fulfilled._
At ‘The Office’ I was introduced to Sir George ——, a nervous little
man with a short leg. He used to be in the game, and came back to help
at ‘The Office’ during the War. Shortly, it is his wish to be permitted
to supplement my old pay so that it reaches my figure—two thousand
seven fifty a year. He considers it would be a pity for ‘The Office’ to
lose my services: he understands my position: and, provided I agree to
remain, he will hand the Treasury sufficient War Stock to pay twelve
fifty a year, such money to be paid to me quarterly while I do my job
and, when I retire, to be added to my pension. . . .
I tried my best to thank him, but I kept seeing the stars in Jo’s dear
eyes. . . .
There. I have set out the miracle. As Sarah Roach said, so it has fallen
out. I have met the person I was on the eve of meeting. By him my life
is to be influenced to an amazing extent. My existence is to be changed.
Instead of being a partner in a shipping firm, I shall go back to my own
old job. My outlook has been switched from bills of lading to that
exhilarating game of blind man’s buff. Instead of lunching in the City
and arranging about freights, I shall be studying men and the ways of
men, peering into their brain-pans, searching their hearts, watching and
waiting and coping with sudden issues, stalking the truth under strange
heavens, trying to beat Delusion at her own game. . . . More. Sir George
is doing it indirectly—through somebody else: and I shall hardly see
him at all.
It remains to be seen how I am to influence him . . . even more strongly
. . . directly . . . physically.
Sufficient unto the day is the perfection thereof.
And now we are going out to look at a car fit for a queen to drive . . .
my queen . . . my darling Jo. . . .
II
November 22nd, 1926
The contrast is so ridiculous that I must set it down.
It is half-past nine, now, of a streaming night.
At this hour a week ago I was in Madrid.
Why I was there does not matter, but I was leaning back in a chair, just
as I am leaning now, regarding the ugliest man I have ever seen. And he
was regarding me with beady eyes. The room was filthy and bare and
frightfully cold. And I was soaked to the skin. One naked electric lamp
hung from the ceiling, shedding a harsh light. I was smoking a filthy
cigar and from time to time I spat upon the boards. When I spoke, I
spoke in vile Spanish, helping myself out with Russian words. I tried to
speak the Russian very well. To be frank, I was very uneasy. I was
keeping a certain appointment—an appointment with the ugly man. I had
arrived early, an hour too soon. The appointment had been arranged for a
quarter to ten. My early arrival hadn’t mattered at all. In fact, he was
quite nice about it—as nice as he was capable of being, this ugly man.
And everything had gone very well. I gave him my news, and he gave me
his. His, I may say, was the more valuable. I was extremely glad of it.
I did not say so, of course. But I was—extremely glad. And now, having
stayed with him nearly an hour, I was inclined to be gone. It was really
rather important that I should bid him good-bye, because the appointment
I had kept had been made for somebody else. And, as I had kept it
without advising them, in the ordinary course of events they would keep
it, too. Indeed, unless they were late, they would knock twice on the
door at a quarter to ten. Possibly they might be early. . . . But one
thing was certain. That was that, whenever they did arrive and they and
the ugly man found out that a total stranger had been receiving his
valuable news, they would both be most annoyed. . . . The trouble was
that my host didn’t mean me to go. . . .
I owe my life to the fact that my hearing is good—at any rate, better
than that of my ugly friend.