Young Diplomacy

I

JONATHAN JEFFERSON ADAMS had made up his mind to be a diplomat, and to devote his talents — and maybe his life — to the service of his country. This was no haphazard decision, hastily arrived at, but had been made carefully, even prayerfully, not only by him, but by his father and mother. As they had watched him grow to manhood his parents had felt more and more that he was of the stuff of which diplomats are made, and that his exceptionally well selected background, his unmistakable talents in social directions, his faith in himself, and his wellknown determination to preserve the status quo in every department of life made the decision inevitable.

So Jonathan, in spite of some discouraging rumors as to the fate of a ‘career’ diplomat, and the difficult climates and habits with which he might have to contend, had determined to risk it. He had been strengthened in his decision by the college adviser who had him in charge, and the headmasters of the schools which he had honored with his presence previous to his college days; in addition to which, as an up-to-date victim of upto-date methods, he had submitted to both an intelligence and a metabolism test.

With his graduation certificate in his hand he went to Washington and took the appointed examination, and browsed a few weeks in the State Department there. At the end of that time he was told to proceed to London, where he had been appointed by the President, with the advice and consent of the Senate, Third Secretary of Embassy at the Court of St. James’s. Thus the die was cast, and Jonathan set forth.

Unlike Mr. Dooley’s diplomat, he did not leave his country with the American eagle stamped into the soles of his shoes; nor, like that celebrated gentleman, did he go with only a clean collar in his grip. Feeling already that the onus of maintaining the prestige of his country lay heavy upon his shoulders, and that he must worthily ‘carry on,’he set sail in the best ship, in the best cabin, with much baggage. This was all marked not only with his name but with the magic addition, ‘Third Secretary of the Embassy of the United States,’ a talisman powerful enough to stay the hand of the most rapacious customs officer and permit the young man — if he had any such low tastes — to thumb his august nose at that functionary without fear of consequences. For the baggage of even a Third Secretary is sacred and inviolate in the code of diplomatic etiquette.

Jonathan reached Southampton without any incident to ruffle his amour propre. For everybody on the boat, awed and somewhat chilled by his majestic solemnity, was overcome by the momentous thought that this superior being — though he looked young and innocent enough — might possibly some day avert war between his country and some barbarian horde. It was even possible that he was now in the very act of transporting to the King of England a treaty calculated to upset all previous traditions of diplomacy and give the United States its rightful place in the sun.

Jonathan vaguely suspected the sensation he was creating, because, to be frank, he had worked hard to that very end. He wanted to make others see him as the unapproachable diplomat made familiar to them by the movies. He sat at the captain’s table, and every time the conversation drifted round to international affairs he maintained a deep and impressive silence. He was courteous and perhaps even a little patronizing to the young women aboard, and to the elderly ladies he confided his fears that political conditions were not as harmonious in the world as the ordinary outsider seemed to think. He was indefinite and was careful to leave off with a significant pause at the right moment, not from any newborn diplomatic reticence, but because he knew less than nothing about the matter. But, as the days went by, a sort of hushed reverence seemed to hover around him as anxious-eyed dowagers meditated on whether it would be proper to ask him — strictly unofficially — whether they should take the next boat back home, and, if not, whether he would protect them if the worst came to the worst — whatever the worst might happen to be.

Sitting in his luxurious cabin, — he had withdrawn himself for official purposes, so it was understood, — he let his mind wander down pleasant paths. He had, of course, heard the base canard offered to this greatest profession of which he was one of the newest ornaments — that a diplomat is one who goes abroad to lie for the benefit of those at home. He knew that that was not so, but that a diplomat was a sort of field representative of his country, a political agent sometimes, again a personal representative of his President, and occasionally a mere sales agent. His job was not only to uphold the prestige of his country by mixing on terms of equality with the ruling classes and his fellow diplomats, but to do so in such a way that he would gain knowledge not only of what was actually going on in the country where he lived, but of what was likely to happen. With this knowledge he must keep up his country’s end in the international battle of wits, and, if possible, make better than a bargain against all comers.

This was no child’s play, as he realized, and if it had not been for the many advantages that the job afforded, very few ‘career’ diplomats would have been forthcoming. But to the average young man of good health, good looks, good background, and general appreciation of the fine things of life, the chance to move in exalted circles, to rub shoulders with kings and emperors, and taste to the full the thrilling — though possibly later cloying — joys of the social whirl, made up for all that. Indeed, the prospect was so fascinating that, in order to experience it, he was willing to live abroad most of his life and spend years in dull and stupid capitals where nothing much happened — less agreeable features which he must take along with more interesting work. Naturally his vision was limited, and the prospect of finding himself in the end an expatriated American did not enter his calculations, nor the fact that the specialized knowledge which he would have acquired would have little interest for his fellow citizens, and indeed would make him an outsider in the more Philistine circles which discuss the gyrations of the stock market and the latest prize fight.

The subtle glamour of the past had had its share in his decision also. He did not think of his profession in its twentieth-century garb of carbon copies, memoranda, and cables in code, but rather in terms of the doughty days of old when knights were bold and fair damsels were waiting to be rescued from skyscrapers or dungeons in old Madrid. He realized that the diplomatic service is the last stronghold of the old romance left in the world, and that it offers to men who love the past and its pageantry the chance to live vicariously in this twentieth century in the atmosphere of old beauty, old traditions, old rituals that have grown up through the centuries, and to take part in the ceremonies and picturesque survivals with which most countries strive to protect themselves against an ever-increasingly materialistic and drab world.

It was a great experience — even for Jonathan — to land on the foreign soil of his new post. The customs men treated him with great courtesy, after a glance at the ostentatious labels, for was he not one of the sacred clan? Personally escorted by the chief of police to the railway train that awaited the passengers, he swelled to his fullest height and breadth as, with studied coldness and with what he believed to be the correct touch of hauteur, he dismissed that official and settled down in solitary grandeur in his reserved compartment to make the trip to London. He could not help wishing that some of his old friends had happened to come by just then.

Arrived at Victoria Station, the Embassy assistant messenger, Frank, met Jonathan as he alighted and welcomed him with a smile and a ’How do you do, sir,’ and a good-natured appeal to the waiting porters to take the bags. Frank treated him with the utmost deference — for were not Third Secretaries always more formal than Ambassadors? — and introduced him in turn to the station master, the newspaper men, and to the police on duty. Each carried out his part of the performance with entire solemnity — as though the arrival of a mere Third Secretary was a matter of any interest to them! Frank had brought a greeting from the Ambassador and a package of mail, and, having personally escorted Jonathan to a comfortable hotel near St. James’s Street, announced that the Third Secretary was expected to dine with the Ambassador that very evening. A little flustered by this imminent assumption of his new status, Jonathan asked Frank a few discreet questions, but was afraid to be too curious, not being at all sure just how far he should go with this rosy-cheeked Englishman who seemed to know everybody, but was inclined — to Jonathan’s way of thinking — to be a little too expansive. But Frank — with many previous experiences in looking after greenhorns — gave him brisk directions on how to reach the Ambassador’s house, added a few hints as to the appropriate costume for the evening, told him how to get to the Embassy office the following day, and left him to make his toilette for the rising of the curtain.

II

And so the great career began. Jonathan took dinner with the Ambassador and the other members of the official Embassy staff, who talked pleasantly about general subjects, asked him questions about doings at home, and gave him some idle gossip of London. They seemed to him a rather dressed-up group, their accent a little on the Oxford side, and there was a quiet dignity about the entertainment which depressed him. He felt strange, and found himself glancing apprehensively a few times at the perfect machines behind the chairs who passed the dishes and filled his glass from time to time. All at once he felt young and inexperienced, that he had undertaken something disconcertingly new, and that the future was dark and full of perils.

Next morning, at an hour which he hoped showed neither too much eagerness nor too much dilatoriness, he started off for the Embassy Chancellery in Victoria Street. On his inquiring the best way, the doorman suggested that he walk through the Park, and, believing that the art of walking must be one of the first to be cultivated in order to fit in with the exerciseloving British, he decided to take the doorman’s suggestion, and set forth blithely downhill toward St. James’s Palace. Passing through the narrow street in St. James’s Park, he felt a slight thrill — which he sternly endeavored to conceal — at the gray old pile with the soldiers on guard outside, and perhaps a little different sort of thrill at the rather ostentatious appearance of Buckingham Palace, with Queen Victoria’s statue, from where he stood, seemingly plastered on the front of it. He crossed the Mall, went down the grassy slope opposite, round a small lake, up the opposite slope, and finally into Victoria Street with its crowds and the heavy lumbering buses surging along.

The amiable Frank met him at the door of ‘123,’ the Chancellery of the Embassy — the official part, as distinct from the Ambassador’s residence.1 Here were kept the precious archives, the code books, passports, and all the other paraphernalia of office. He was not impressed with the rather dingy place, its heavy Turkey rugs, solemnlooking dark furniture of generous proportions, and lofty windows looking out on the street, with their shades pulled up to the top to catch the meagre sunlight. The only frivolous touch in the central entrance hall was the bust of a lady of ample charms and rather simpering expression, with a crown of stars round her hair, who seemed to be an American deity of some sort. Horrors! Was that the great Miss Liberty? He had never seen her so close before! Frank showed him the various rooms; he tiptoed into the Ambassador’s sanctum and gazed mournfully at the portraits of the many good men and true who had represented his country at London, most of them dead now, and finally was escorted upstairs to a cheerful little room at the back of the establishment with a view of back yards and the district post office. Frank puttered round like an anxious landlady trying to rent a room, placed a new blotting sheet on the old pad, saw that paper, pens, and ink were there, opened the window to let in a sample of London’s icy blasts with a dash of fog, put a match to the fire, and bustled out.

Jonathan’s first morning was spent in persuading his fire to burn, writing two or three letters home on the Embassy’s best official stationery, and initialing a cable to the State Department announcing his safe arrival, which the officious but kindly Frank, with an uncanny knowledge of young men and their personal ego, brought up for him to see. Frank also came along later with some formidable printed forms on which must be made a full report of Jonathan’s expenditures in reaching his post (at five cents a mile). Seeing Jonathan’s bewilderment, that amiable official produced from a pocket a form filled out by Jonathan’s predecessor, in which the number of days and the number of miles had already been computed. With the report thus simplified to meet his mental chaotic condition, Jonathan was able to deal with his first official accounting to his Government for monies expended.

After a few days of writing enthusiastic letters to his friends in America about his adventures, and rather timidly walking in on his superiors from time to time to see in what way he could serve them, he began to feel a certain sense of disappointment. To his American ideas the Embassy seemed to take itself far too casually. Not a single important matter had been mentioned in his hearing, there were no whispered conferences behind closed doors with anxious comings and goings, and the Ambassador did not wear that harassed look with which ambassadors seem to be permanently endowed in fiction. All was peaceful and content, letters were seemingly answered by someone, — giving as little information as possible, it seemed to Jonathan, — callers were attended to; and, as Jonathan glanced from time to time at incoming mail, it was borne in upon him that none of this material was what he would have considered particularly ‘constructive.’ No one attempted to tell him anything, or to teach him anything. Whatever information he picked up came mostly from the general messengers’ room in which Frank and his father spent their days. This room was apparently the Mecca of everyone with a story to tell, a bit of gossip to retail, or a grievance to air, and it also seemed to be the open door to every newspaper man in London. To this office the postman delivered all mail, whether it was a letter from a remote village in Arkansas or the imposing Notes and letters from the Court and the Foreign Office. Even cables were received and deciphered in this room. It surprised Jonathan that mere clerks should have such great responsibility.

The Ambassador had done nothing more than hail him pleasantly and noncommittally. He had not been called in and solemnly initiated into his duties. He did n’t even know what they were supposed to be. In fact the only time he did anything was when Frank asked him by telephone please to step down and see a caller, or informed him that one of the newspaper men would like a few words with him. And when he did step down he was at a loss to know what to do or say, so he got into the habit of spending some time in the general visitors’ room and listening to what other members of the staff told their callers.

III

But diplomacy is not, in the final analysis, a profession that is practised in an office. It is a fine art that comes to maturity at dinner tables, at dances, in the give-and-take of social conflict; and it flowers in perfection only about once in a century. Real diplomats are very select specimens, very scarce, most of them now dead. For it takes not only the right parents and education to make a diplomat, but possibly also a talent for analysis, a ‘nose for news,’ a personality so engaging that it breaks down the reticence of others, and a persistence in the pursuit of an idea that is too exhausting for the majority. It also seems to demand an educated ancestry of several hundred years, and a somewhat diabolical cunning compared to which the cunning of the fox is amateurish.

Jonathan Jefferson Adams, however, comprehended little of this. He had indeed studied international law, written exhaustive treatises on obscure questions of citizenship, and done some research. And all the use he was making of this postgraduate study was to do a few odd jobs that could have been done just as well by an office boy.

But he was soon consoled and his time and energy engaged in more congenial pursuits. He became a personage sought after by the Fair Sex. Friends of old friends of old friends of his at college, or even previous to that time, got in touch with him without delay and murmured their delight that he had come to be among them, and would n’t he come to dinner to-morrow? How did he like London, and how was everything in dear, delightful Washington? Having no official engagements whatsoever, the King having so far ignored his arrival, he accepted gratefully, and for several weeks he ‘ate for Uncle Sam’ at the many hospitable boards which made a practice of feeding the newer diplomats in turn as they arrived. He ‘broke into society’ via the dining rooms of the good old war horses of American hostesses who had lived in London for years and felt called upon to launch the new young men properly. In that way maybe they salved their consciences for being expatriates.

At these houses he met interesting people, among them many girls who looked almost edible, gave him shy glances as at a young god, and invited him to do many pleasant things, which he did. The routine work of the Embassy got less and less of his time as his social duties crowded in upon him, and he began to preen his feathers and think himself a great social success. In case he should feel neglected, the other members of the Embassy also ‘wished on him’ every invitation they either could not or would not accept, and boldly recommended him to hostesses as a nice young thing. This was aggravating for the disease known as ‘swelled head,’ which he promptly acquired.

Then came a day when, like Humpty Dumpty, he had a great fall, administered by his superior officer. He brought it on himself. A certain great lady of England, finding herself short of a man for an important dinner, had called up our young man, introduced herself as an old friend of his mother’s, and asked him to fill the place that night. He thanked her, but coldly informed her that he was unable to accept, and gave no reason. He made it plain that his vanity was wounded to be invited at the last minute. That was bad enough for any young official to do, but he made the fatal mistake of boasting about it, and it got to the ears of the Councilor, who called him in the following day and said casually: —

‘So the Duchess of X invited you to dinner last night. That was a very charming compliment she paid you, and I hope you are properly grateful.’

‘I — I — I did n’t go,’ said Jonathan with some misgiving.

‘You did n’t! That was a pity, for she is known for her wonderful entertainments. Er — why did n’t you?’

‘ I thought she should not have asked me at the last minute,’ replied Jonathan with an attempt to brazen it out.

‘Indeed,’ said his chief acidly but firmly. ‘Your vanity was wounded, was it? Too bad. Don’t you realize that she would n’t know you from Adam, would n’t recognize you from a hundred others like you in the diplomatic corps, but, having a vacant place for a very interesting occasion, she took a chance of finding you disengaged and giving you an opportunity to be there? You should have gone and been as charming as you could. Then next time she would have invited you for yourself alone. Now she will never ask you again, and you have missed the friendship of one of the greatest and cleverest women in England. That was not a diplomatic move, my young friend.’

The Duchess never invited him again.

The great day arrived at last when he was to meet the King. He had been on tiptoe with excitement for the past week, ever since his engraved invitation had come. He was to attend the levee at St. James’s Palace with the Ambassador and Councilor, his first official appearance in his new role. There was only one disappointing note — he was not to wear knee breeches. He had thought that they were part of his apparel, but it seemed that these beautiful nether appendages were reserved for evening functions. When in Washington he had looked eagerly at many pictures, in the books of the past, of gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms, with oak-leaf designs down the fronts of the coats, and the like, and had been amazed and delighted to find that these bright birds were Americans and this decorated attire the American official diplomatic dress. Why, then, was it not worn now? It seemed, on inquiry, that a gentleman named Jefferson had not cared for it, that he thought it was not democratic enough, and had therefore condemned the diplomats of his time and thereafter to the ordinary evening dress of ordinary society with knee breeches, undistinguishable from that worn by the waiters. For waiters in the houses of the great wore knee breeches too, and the difference between an American diplomat and a waiter was hard to determine sometimes. Only by arrogance of manner could they be told apart, waiters being a lofty race, especially those who have imbibed the royal atmosphere.

Jonathan drove with the Ambassador and Councilor to St. James’s Palace, dressed in his new clothes and feeling rather impressed. It had not taken him long to shed his American clothes, like an old skin, and blossom out in the latest London styles. For all diplomats made the great change, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, but inevitably. Some of them even went to the length of monocles, and the appearance of spats had always been a sign to the initiated that the great transition from caterpillar to butterfly was impending. Jonathan felt very assured of his personal appearance, therefore, as he followed his chiefs into the levee, and as he made his bow to the King he experienced some flutterings that certainly had no proper place in his American heart. He would not be impressed, he thought to himself. Why should a king be any different from anyone else, or any better? But, notwithstanding his intellectual rejection of a difference, the defiant pumping of his heart showed that old ancestral ties were not quite dead. On the way out the Ambassador introduced him to several colleagues, and the act of his presentation to the King made him a fully accredited member of the Corps Diplomatique.

IV

This official ceremony over, the question of clothes off his mind, Jonathan began to settle down and express his personality. He found that diplomacy took young men in different ways. There was seemingly a precedent for almost any pursuit he wished to embrace, outside of the mere office duties that were his lot and that took so very little of his time. His predecessors had seemingly been men of versatile interests which they pursued unrelentingly. There was David Ellis, who had placed his affections and his money upon a very superior race horse named Portlight II, with direful results to his finances. The disappointments and tribulations in connection with that famous steed had a demoralizing effect upon his owner, for how could he be expected to get up the proper amount of wrath at supposed insults placed upon his traveling downtrodden fellow citizens when his own heart was bleeding at the hard kicks that were inflicted upon him by his equine favorite? His head might be bloody and unbowed, but undoubtedly his diplomacy suffered.

But Ellis was an eternal optimist about his horse, and not even a ribald acquaintance with whom he crossed the Atlantic on his return from leave could shake his faith. The gentleman, therefore, persuaded him to bet half his moustache on the success of his steed in a certain race that was imminent, and he arrived at the Embassy, a few days later, minus his natty little moustache and very sulky.

Jonathan discovered that there were many precedents also for leading the butterfly life simply and solely, and devoting himself to certain fair damsels, in the hope, presumably, that one of them might have a secret to divulge some day that would make up for the time spent. William Summers, Ralph Goodfellow, John Sayres, George Andrew Smith, and many others had apparently found this a good way to learn the intricacies of psychology and diplomatic usage. Of course in the end a hard-hearted Ambassador might state caustically that the occupation led nowhere, except sometimes to the altar — always a mistake in the case of a Third Secretary, as life was not easy for a young married diplomat unless he had money enough to take care of himself and make his own social life in a way that did credit to his country and for which his country was not prepared to pay. His Ambassador, indeed, was apt to be annoyed at having a married Third Secretary thrust upon him, as he relied on the young fry to fill up the ends of his dinner table and dance with the ‘wallflowers’ at his parties.

Ambassadors at no time see any sense in a married Third Secretary, and indeed prefer to have bachelor staffs altogether. But that is not always possible, so they state their preference and hope for the best. Mr. Whitelaw Reid was once much elated at being informed that new Military and Naval Attachés had been appointed to London who were both bachelors. But, alas, within three months of their arrival both the miscreants took unto themselves wives, without previously consulting him and certainly without his consent.

Closely allied to the petticoatchasing brand of Third Secretaries was the type which saw in the extensive stretching of their diplomatic privileges a way to become popular and famous. Among these might be mentioned James Elias Johnson, Walter DeLancey Manners, and Cyril Arbuthnot Travers. This type went about the business in a serious way truly national. If there was anything to be given away, so to speak, they were not going to be left. They found that they were immune from arrest, whatever they did, for were they not personal representatives of the President? They could keep all the dogs they wanted without paying a tax, their houses were not taxable, and they could drive down the middle of certain London streets ordinarily closed to the public. Speed limits did not hamper the progress of a diplomat, for he was above the law. So if James Elias Johnson, et al., were traveling fast and furiously down the peaceful English roads — as they undoubtedly often were — to the destruction of life and limb of many a good fat hen, and a watchful policeman put up a stern hand to stop them, the production of their visiting cards, and an announcement that they were on official business, brought an instant apology from the policeman for daring to interfere with the progress of a diplomat.

Later these young men found that it was not quite so simple after all, and that in the final analysis privileges must be conserved to have much value — that these privileges, in fact, were valuable only if they were reserved for emergencies. For a rule of the police made it necessary for a report to be made of the name of each delinquent, and after one certain young man had ninety-seven reports to his credit — or discredit — the matter was brought to the attention of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and he took occasion one day to remonstrate mildly with the Ambassador on this continued breach of good manners by a member of his staff. The Ambassador took steps that were not nearly so mild. He informed the chagrined gentleman that if he did not curb his love for speed he would probably soon have a chance to exercise his talents in the United States outside of the diplomatic service.

The diplomatic service also had seemed to attract, among Jonathan’s predecessors, a smattering of young men who had entered the service with serious intent to learn diplomacy, who mulled over the books in the library, discussed matters of international law with their colleagues, and read the old files of Embassy correspondence with care and enthusiasm. Among these were William Reynolds Davis and Aaron Buckner IV. On these worthy souls the routine work of the Embassy soon devolved. More experienced ‘higher-ups’ heaved a sigh of relief when a man of this sort appeared, and turned over to him without delay the batches of letters asking for impossibilities, the cranks who were sure that there was a great estate for them hidden in the fastnesses of the British Museum, and the others who believed that they were descended from Edward the Black Prince and wished the Embassy to send on their coat of arms ‘in time for Nina’s coming-out party.’ William Reynolds Davis and his like conscientiously set to work to attend to these matters in a businesslike American fashion, looking up precedents, making copious notes, calling up lawyers and newspaper men for advice, questioning the Embassy staff exhaustively, and plunging madly in the new morass of bewilderment of much detail and many importunate questioners.

The Embassy un-diplomatic officials — meaning the clerical staff, consisting of the two messengers and a girl stenographer, the only member of her sex in the sacred precincts — left Jonathan severely to his fate, their watchword being in good old British usage, ‘Proffered services stink.’ They did not volunteer any assistance or advice whatsoever, but: contented themselves with answering questions and assuming an attitude of watchful waiting. They knew that, given time, a chastened young man would come to them to help him out and to show him a light in the maddening maze. And so it was.

V

Jonathan divided his time rather impartially among these various activities, and on the whole managed to enjoy himself. But he was full of life and humor and did not always uphold the great dignity of his Embassy in a way that he should. Someone always managed to save him, however. On one occasion the feminine member of the staff was useful for that purpose. She was amazed to see him walking toward the front door one afternoon with a beautiful bunch of roses in his hand. When he saw her he abruptly changed his direction and went instead into the messengers’ office. Curious, she followed to find out what was afoot. Frank, with many giggles, finally informed her, to Jonathan’s unmistakable wrath, that Jonathan had had such a marvelous manicure given him by such a marvelous manicurist that he felt nothing short of this bunch of roses would express his admiration both for her and for his brilliant nails.

‘Better give them to me,’ she said, ‘Diplomats should show their appreciation more discreetly.’

‘All right, grandma,’ said the culprit with a sigh, as he handed them over. ‘You know best.’

In the course of time Jonathan became quite useful in the Embassy. He discovered many printed form letters answering most of the regular questions. He found that the ‘minor staff’ knew all the passport snags. He discovered that tickets for various occasions were concealed in the drawer of the desk in the visitors’ room, and that if there ever had been a Sir Francis Drake estate in England it had been dissipated more than two hundred years ago and there was no use for anyone in America to try to claim it.

The great questions of diplomacy never came Jonathan’s way. It was true that he saw the various notes and dispatches that came in, and there was nothing to hinder his looking at the replies, but he had no hand in them and could not even express his views, for he was never asked for them. Instead, he interviewed persistent callers who demanded free tickets for everything and tried to make a dozen cards do the work of hundreds. He got a kind of comfort, when contemplating a group of rapacious people, from a story current that on one occasion, in the unregenerate days of old, a particularly offensive and persistent man who had applied successively for every free ticket the Embassy had, only to find that he had been forestalled, became so very obnoxious in his remarks that the Secretary gave him a ticket admitting him to Piccadilly Circus.

And so the months went by. Christmas — bringing a wistful feeling of homesickness; the ‘Little Season’ that comes between New Year’s and Lent, with the early courts and levees; the forty days of Lent, which can be devoted to diplomacy as well as to fasting, for there is little else to do; then Easter, the beginning of the real season; the coming of the American tourists in their tens of thousands; courts, levees, garden parlies, receptions to visiting sovereigns, Ascot, Goodwood, Cowes Regatta, and then August 12, the dead line when grouse shooting begins in Scotland and London empties overnight of everyone, including both Houses of Parliament, leaving the city to the workers and the tourists.

With the rest of the staff Jonathan passed restful week-ends and brief periods of leave in beautiful English homes, made friends with more and more English people, acquired the obnoxious tea habit and almost the beginnings of a British accent. His fellow diplomats discussed politics and other questions with him. And sitting in the Diplomatic Gallery of the House of Commons, or listening to conversations between well-informed men and women, the fascination of his profession grew on him. Almost unconsciously, underneath all the froth and the pageantry, he began to learn bit by bit one of diplomacy’s greatest lessons — to wait in patience for the thing that is worth waiting for. He saw international matters absorbing the entire life and thought and aspiration of some of the greatest men. He noticed that his own country’s hurry and bustle did not mean increased accomplishments in the big things, but that this rush seemed rather a relief from overstrained nerves. He learned that nothing can be done overnight and that the making of a treaty has no value except there is the spirit behind it to make it effective. He lost faith at some place along the road in the efficacy of the written word to change human nature, and began to take the leisurely view which would arm him successfully for that long pull when it came.

When, in due time, the fatal cable reached him ordering him to proceed to Siam as Second Secretary, he had a period of rebellion against this autocratic State Department which could step in and change his life overnight. Why should he leave London just when he was used to things, and when he had so many wonderful friends, and the Ambassador needed him? Had n’t, the State Department any sense, that they moved a man just when he began to know his job? He made up his mind to ask the Ambassador to cable and request permission for him to remain. But wiser counsels prevailed — for was he not a soldier, subject to orders? And if his life was to consist of a continuous series of comings and goings he must make the best of it and show that he was a good sport. He had the feeling, however, that, although his heart would be torn in many different directions, when he settled down in old age to relive the days that were gone his memories would be a panorama of journeys on sea and land, of friends made and lost, of failures and successes, making a scene of splendor in which lives were laid down, forlorn hopes carried to victory, and history made, in which he had played no ignoble part.

Frank became the heir to dozens of ties, socks, old shirts, and every bit of flannel in his wardrobe (the weather reports of Siam not being conducive to wool). He bade a sorrowful farewell to his friends, and his colleagues expressed regret at the whirligig which was to part them now, but which might — who knew? — reunite them in some sunnier clime further down the years. They gave him all the gossip of his new post and added a few warnings for luck. The Ambassador shook him by the hand and told him he had done well, and as he went out of the familiar door for the last time he had a lump in his throat and a mist before his eyes.

Back again at the same station, with Frank to see him off, favorable attention from newspaper men, station officials, and police, he entered his reserved carriage on the first lap of his journey. As he watched the country fly by, he tried to recollect the Jonathan Jefferson Adams of a year ago, and in that comparison realized what a long way he had come since then. He had found his footing in the new profession, and he saw light and a sort of fulfillment ahead. For the first time he was able to admit frankly to himself that it was not from books or from conscious teaching that he had become a diplomat, but that what he had learned had come from many sources, among them lazy afternoons spent in the messengers’ office listening to stories, to anecdotes, and to gentle advice of a sort. ‘Frank pure and simple,’ as he called himself, had, perhaps through his very simplicity, through his genial friendliness and his unconscious helpfulness, been one of the best teachers. He hoped there would be another Frank to meet him when he reached Siam, to guide his feet as skillfully and as kindly among the rocks and briars of Siamese officialdom, but he feared there would n’t, for there was only one Frank. Some day he would write and tell him so, and thank him, and with that thought revolving aimlessly in his drowsy mind he settled down for his afternoon forty winks.