Time and Time Again

Toward midnight Charles Anderson finished some notes on a talk he had had with a newspaper editor at lunch—nothing very important, but he thought he ought to keep Bingay decently informed. The hour and the completion of the task seemed to call for a drink, so he went to the bathroom for some water and then to his suitcase for the silver flask that he always carried on these junkets and tried to keep replenished. He was not much of a whisky drinker (so he would say of himself when he ordered wine), but he liked a nightcap either in bed before turning out the light or during that last half hour of dressing-gowned pottering when he would tidy up the affairs of the day both in his mind and on his desk. He was tidy by nature, and years of experience had made him save, whenever possible, some small but relaxing job for a final one, even if it were only an entry in his diary or a jotting for the book he was one day going to write.

Tonight, however, there was no doubt as to what the job should be. He had been thinking of it, off and on and with increasing satisfaction, all day; it had been a sort of protective armor at moments when he had needed it. And now, with the drink at his elbow and the sounds of the city pleasantly audible from beyond the closed and curtained windows, he took a sheet of hotel notepaper and wrote:

That done, and the envelope addressed care of Thomas Cook’s, Lucerne, Charles finished his drink in bed and went quickly to sleep. He was a good sleeper, not because he had nothing to worry about, but because as a rule he had worked hard enough to be tired and conscientiously enough to be untroubled by conscience; lately, though, he had begun to feel sometimes too tired. But there need not be much more of it, he consoled himself; he would soon be on pension, and with each recent year ambition had withdrawn less reluctantly from the probably unscalable cliffs and had begun to settle for the long comfortable valley just round the corner.

After a couple of days Charles received a wire sent from Interlaken:

When Charles had digested this he happily made a note in his engagement book, and then muttered, in the presence of Sir Malcolm Bingay’s secretary: “I don’t mind ‘okay,’ but ‘make it’ . . . and ‘c-h-e-c-k,’ cheque. . . . Really . . . hasn’t he got over all that yet?”

Charles was a handsome man for his age, which was fifty-two. His hair had turned austerely iron-gray, but without thinning, and since he was something of a gourmet his trim figure offered a special tribute to character and temperament. Most people liked him, including those who would have been astonished if he had ever achieved any sensational success; he never had, so in a sort of way they could like him all the more. Had he been born half a century earlier he would probably not have been nicknamed “Stuffy” by his colleagues; perhaps also in those halcyon days he could hardly have escaped becoming an ambassador or minister in one of the South American or smaller European capitals. “After you’re fifty there’ll be something wrong with you if you don’t get a Legation,” he had been told on taking up his first post, but his informant had himself been a minister, who had modestly added, in echo of Lord Melbourne: “There’s no damn merit about it that I can see.” But perhaps, if not merit, which Charles had possessed, there had been other things, including luck and a Zeitgeist, that had counted against him; at any rate, he had not been given a Legation, and for the last year or so had been sticking around at the Foreign Office. This Paris Conference was really the most considerable event that had come his way since the war period, though it was far from being world-shattering, and he surmised that Bingay had taken him along chiefly because the Balkan angle might crop up. So far it hadn’t, and Charles wished it would, as a wrestler hopes for a chance to display a hold in which he has long specialized. Charles thought it possible that if the Balkan angle did crop up he might even, in a minor professional way and entirely without headlines, distinguish himself.

That he had been born during the last Victorian decade, instead of the first, was perhaps in some ways a pity, because he had just the right degree of correctness for the older-fashioned diplomat, apart from a very genuine integrity, knack with languages, suave manners, and a pretty if slightly erudite wit. He had also a taste for classical music, detective stories, and dry wines, which aptly counterbalanced his distaste for jazz, modern nondetective fiction, and sweet wines. If you thought him a snob, as some people did, you had to admit that at Schönbrunn or Tsarskoye-Selo or in a first-class compartment on the old chocolate and white London and North-Western Scotch Express (en route for Balmoral) he would have looked the real thing in times when the standards of reality, or perhaps of things, were very different. . . . Anyhow, his career had not been unworthy, and his small dinner parties in various parts of the world had even been notable—until the break in his life that occurred during the Second World War.

It was this, when it came, that had persuaded him to send Gerald, then aged five, to spend the rest of the war years in America. During such a regrettable but prudent exile, Charles had written to his son regularly every week, and once, being on a mission that had sent him across the Atlantic in the autumn of 1941, he had been able to spend a convenient week end with the Fuesslis at Parson’s Corner, Connecticut.

The Fuesslis were connections of his wife’s—genial people in the wholesale hardware business, comfortably off, and innocent enough to be proud of having an Englishman who was in Who’s Who as their house guest. They made him as welcome as they had made Gerald, and Charles knew he owed them a debt he could never repay. True, the boy seemed to be acquiring a slight American accent, but perhaps this was unavoidable—he would unlearn it later when he came home, for of course the Germans would be defeated eventually; one took that for granted. For the time being, it had been and still would be undeniably reassuring to think of him safe and sound and well fed, while his father breakfasted on spam and put out incendiary bombs on Whitehall roofs.

Another thing that troubled Charles slightly during his brief visit to Parson’s Corner was that the Fuesslis seemed to have odd ideas of how to treat a youngster. On the night that Charles arrived at their house it was doubtless excusable that Gerald should be allowed to stay up past his usual bedtime, but it seemed strange to Charles to have to sit at the dinner table not only with his own youngster but also with the Fuesslis’ daughter Louise, aged three. He ascribed it to the kindness of his hosts and the natural good manners of both children that such an extraordinary situation passed without untoward incident.

But an even odder thing happened on the day following. It was a Sunday, and the Fuesslis could think of nothing better to do than drive a hundred miles to nowhere in particular, along roads crowded with other Americans doing the same thing. Charles and Gerald were placed together in the back seat of the Buick, and the boy, who certainly seemed happy enough, pointed out many local landmarks, such as Woodrow Wilson High, the new Sears Roebuck, and the place where a holdup man had recently been shot in a police chase. Toward evening Charles was beginning to feel hungry, the more so as lunch had been of the picnic variety, eaten in the car too hurriedly to be enjoyed. He was still thinking about a good dinner when the car turned into the parking area of what was apparently a large and popular roadside restaurant.

“I hope you like sea food,” said Mr. Fuessli, as they walked their way amongst innumerable cars toward an entrance festooned with life belts.

“Sea food? . . . Er . . . fish, that is? Oh yes, I do, indeed.” (Which was true enough, though this “sea food” set Charles thinking that he also enjoyed “land food,” if such a term could be used to describe a really delicious entrecôte, or perhaps the poulet sauté américain which was, he supposed, the nearest approach to a national dish.)

“Then I can promise you something worth waiting for,” continued Mr. Fuessli, pushing into the lobby.

It soon became clear to Charles that “waiting for” had been no idle phrase; for the place was crowded, the restaurateur did not greet them, no table had been reserved, and there were twenty or thirty patrons standing in line for the next one available.

“I guess you have to stand in line for everything in England,” said Mrs. Fuessli.

“I believe my housekeeper does it very often,” answered Charles, gently.

Not by a word or gesture did he convey his real emotions, and the only additional comment he permitted himself was at the spectacle of so many children waiting—and by no means all of them good-mannered like Gerald and Louise. “These youngsters,” said Charles tentatively. “They—er—they don’t. . . . Their parents, I mean . . . do they—er—take them into dinner here?”

“Sure,” answered Mr. Fuessli. “What else can they do with them?”

“They look a little tired—the children, I mean.”

“Oh, it’s just the drive. Kids love it, anyway. Besides, you can’t leave ’em at home without a sitter and you can’t always get a sitter, especially on Sundays.”

And true enough, when at last their turn came for a table Charles observed that the dining room was quite overpopulated with children—some, like Louise, young enough to occupy high chairs supplied by the restaurant.

“So they encourage them to come here?” Charles mused, still grappling with his private astonishment.

“Oh, not by themselves—only with grownups,” Mr. Fuessli replied. “Gosh, no—think of what this place would be like if they let the kids come in alone!”

Charles thought of it, and found the speculation indeed appalling. He noted meanwhile that there was even a special children’s dinner at half price, which Gerald and Louise both ate with relish. The sea food, incidentally, proved to be excellent, and the California wine that Mr. Fuessli ordered was equal to some Charles had tasted from far more familiar bottles.

Over coffee, which they drank in a hurry because the line in the lobby was still long, Charles was anxious to dispel any impression that he had not thoroughly enjoyed himself. “You mustn’t think I don’t appreciate your taking Gerald with you like this. It’s just that, well, I suppose one gets used to old-fashioned ideas in England—I mean, that children have their meals in the nursery and go to bed soon afterwards . . . and besides, of course, we don’t have places like this, even in peacetime.”

“Maybe you would have,” said Mr. Fuessli, “if there was a demand for them.” (He had always found this principle valid in the hardware business.)

“That’s very possible,” Charles agreed. “And perhaps the truth is that some of us in England are too old-fashioned. . . . For instance, I was twenty-one before my own father ever took me out to dinner.”

The Fuesslis looked incredulous.

Charles smiled. “Of course that was overdoing it. I’ll initiate Gerald much earlier.”

“Initiate him?” Mrs. Fuessli echoed.

“In a way. After all, there’s a good deal of ritual in it—how to explore a French menu, the wines that go best with various foods, clothes to wear on different occasions, what people to tip and how much—quite a lot to learn.”

“Don’t you think one can pick up things like that without exactly learning them?” asked Mr. Fuessli.

“Better to learn them, then you don’t pick them up wrong.” Charles did not intend to be either didactic or crushing, but he thought he might have sounded a little of both and it disconcerted him.

Mrs. Fuessli twinkled. “And when do you think Gerry will be ready to start learning?”

“Oh, I’d say when he’s at Cambridge—maybe eighteen or nineteen.” Charles added, lest he should seem to be taking the whole thing far too seriously: “I’m already looking forward to it—a grand excuse to give myself what Lord Curzon once called a beahno.”

They did not understand the allusion, so he had to explain that “beano” was a sound, if somewhat proletarian, English word meaning “a good time” (derived from “beanfeast”), but that Lord Curzon, a man of unproletarian perspectives, had assumed from its appearance that the word was Italian, and had therefore pronounced it “bay-ah-no.” Charles enjoyed dissecting the joke (for it had always had for him a flavor incommunicable perhaps to those who had not known Lord Curzon professionally); he hoped it might at least convince the Fuesslis that he had a sense of humor. But they merely smiled in a rather vague way, and after a pause Mrs. Fuessli returned to the subject of Gerald’s “initiation.”

“And where will you go when you first take him to dinner?” she asked. “Have you planned that too?”

“You mean the name of the restaurant? Let’s see now . . . might be Michelet’s. You know it? You know London? It’s near the Covent Garden market. Festive but good.”

“Was that where your father took you?”

“Oh no, I don’t think Michelet’s was in existence then. We just dined at his club and had the ordinary club dinner—nothing special, except for the novelty it was to me.”

“But you’d rather have Michelet’s for Gerry?”

“I would, yes—French cooking for me, any time—even the best London clubs aren’t famous for their. . . .” He realized that this was dangerous ground; the Fuesslis might think he was dissatisfied with their own table, which he certainly wasn’t—after England in wartime it was wonderful. He broke off by adding: “Please don’t think this is an old family tradition or anything absurd like that. It’s just that as soon as Gerald’s old enough there are so many things I’m looking forward to.”

He had to break off again because Mrs. Fuessli was giggling and he knew it was at himself. “Oh, do make it seventeen—not eighteen or nineteen—when you take him to Michelet’s,” she pleaded. She looked very impish and provocative in such a mood. “Because he’ll grow up fast in America—our boys of seventeen are almost men.”

Charles thought that this might possibly be true, if by men she meant (as she doubtless did) American men; and he reflected again how charming she was, and (with a rueful glance at Mr. Fuessli, who was bald and overweight) how secure must be the position of American womanhood.

Mrs. Fuessli then turned to Gerald. “Gerry dear, wouldn’t you like to have your dad take you to dinner in a big London restaurant on your seventeenth birthday?”

“Not really big—” Charles was murmuring, but Gerald, with his mouth full of chocolate ice cream, was already expressing some kind of inarticulate enthusiasm.

“You see he would, Mr. Anderson. . . . Gerry, make sure you remind him when the time comes. . . . Seventeen, Mr. Anderson—remember that.”

Charles, basking in the thought that Mrs. Fuessli must like him at least enough to make fun of him, felt indulgent, a little puzzled by, but also warm to his hosts. “All right. Seventeen it shall be. Gerald, you and I have a date.” He laughed, and hoped the Americanism did not come from him too solemnly.

Hence, in part, the letter Charles wrote to Gerald in Switzerland eleven years later. Of course he had taken the boy out to dinner countless times already, and for that matter Michelet’s had gone (victim of a V-2 during the last year of the war); yet the memory of that conversation at Parson’s Corner had impressed on Charles an obligation which he assumed all the more gladly because he could call to mind Mrs. Fuessli’s pretty face.

⋘ ⋙

Whatever else about him was in doubt, there could be none about his genuine affection for his son. It was not only his deepest emotion, it was his most difficult, and he was a man who found many of his emotions difficult. Actually, the seventeenth birthday dinner soon became far more than a pleasure to be looked forward to; it grew to be a symbol in his mind of something he hoped would eventually flourish—an adult, man-to-man friendship between father and son. During the decade that followed his visit to Parson’s Corner, Charles had seen Gerald rather infrequently, even after the boy’s return from America, for then had come the school years, with holidays often spent at the homes of school friends, since it was usually impossible to fit them in with Charles’s periods of leave. But most of all, he was a shy man with children, and had no knack of dealing with them; he was afraid he bored them, and his unwillingness to do so made him tend to keep out of their way. All of which, in Gerald’s case, was surely only temporary. Charles had pinned his faith on some change taking place quite suddenly some day—some liquefaction of his emotions, and of Gerald’s, as miraculous as that of the blood of St. Januarius.

And now, in Paris, as he endured long sultry hours at the Conference, his thoughts often wandered to Switzerland, where Gerald was enjoying a walking tour with some friends of his own age, accompanied by a young schoolmaster who presumably had the knack that Charles lacked. Charles envied that schoolmaster, though he would not have changed places with him for the world.

Another man whom Charles would not have changed places with was his opposite number on the other side of the Conference table—a fellow named Palan. Palan’s own chief was monolithic and taciturn; unlike Sir Malcolm Bingay he left most of the talking to his subordinate. Perhaps the monolith spoke neither French nor English, Charles could not decide. Nor could he decide whether he himself would like to measure himself in debate against this fellow Palan or not; at times he was glad that Sir Malcolm bore the brunt, but at other times he had a curious desire to justify himself in Palan’s eyes—to prove that he too, though only second in command, was just as capable of performing a virtuoso job. Or was he just as capable? He kept studying Palan and wondering. Palan had, indeed, begun to fascinate Charles from the opening day of the Conference. He was plump and swarthy, careless of manners, certainly not the kind of person that an old-style diplomat could ever have felt at home with across any kind of table. Nor did Charles; yet he envied the man’s animal vitality and impassioned voice that could carry so easily across a room (Charles knew from experience that his own gentler and more pleasing tenor was far less pervasive); he hated Palan’s deplorable French accent, yet marveled at his complete lack of embarrassment in exhibiting it—a lack that almost amounted to a skill. Charles had also watched with mixed emotions Palan’s habit of loosening his collar when his neck began to sweat, and the way he proudly observed the contents of his handkerchief whenever he noisily blew his nose. “Vox, et praeterea nihil,” muttered Charles to Sir Malcolm on one such occasion, hoping his superior would see the little joke. But Sir Malcolm was either not a Latinist or else in a bad humor; he did not even smile.

The trouble was that so far Palan seemed to have scored rather heavily. Even in his bad French he had drawn laughs from the other delegates at the expense of Sir Malcolm, and Sir Malcolm had found it possible to keep his temper in public only by losing it a little in private. Charles had had to endure this too. There were times when he would have been relieved to learn, on rejoining the Conference for another session, that Palan had been run over by a taxi during the interval. And yet . . . in a way he could not exactly analyze, he felt a quality in Palan that made him picture himself victorious, but also magnanimous, over such a foe. . . . He imagined himself saying, at some reception after a draft agreement had been signed on all the terms that Palan’s side had at first violently opposed: “I trust, M’sieur Palan, there are no hard feelings between us. For myself, and speaking also on behalf of Sir Malcolm Bingay, who is unfortunately confined to his bed by a severe attack of arthritis—I can assure you, etc., etc. . . .” It would sound good in his own perfect French.

Unfortunately nothing of all this seemed likely except perhaps Sir Malcolm’s arthritis, which did indeed get worse as the Conference proceeded.

Once, in the street outside the building in which the Conference was being held, a little girl of nine or ten presented Palan with a bunch of flowers. Palan picked up the child in his arms and kissed her. A few bystanders smiled. Charles, who had been a witness from a distance, turned away as shyly as if the incident had involved himself. Again he envied Palan.

⋘ ⋙

How refreshing, amidst these encounters and experiences, to think of Gerald’s arrival and the birthday dinner. As soon as he had received the answering wire Charles went to the Cheval Noir, a small restaurant near the Champs Élysées which was a favorite of his—not one of those famous institutions like Prunier’s or Voisin’s, meccas for tourists, but the sort of place he would have been disappointed to hear spoken of by any Englishman or American, and that he himself was careful never to recommend. At the Cheval Noir he talked to Henri. Of course the dinner was not to be planned in detail—it was part of Charles’s anticipated pleasure that he would discuss such important matters with Gerald and (using all the tact of which he was capable) let the boy seem to be making his own decisions. But there could be no harm in considering the possibilities. Only a simple dinner—soup, fish, then flesh or fowl of the kind that Henri knew how to cook as well as any man in Europe. No cocktails beforehand, but perhaps a glass of Vino de Pasto—no champagne (unless Gerald seemed disappointed by its absence), but a Chablis and then one of those honest Burgundies—say a Chambertin. . . . And crêpes Suzette to follow, as a sporting concession to a youthful palate—Charles himself was not fond of them (just dressed-up pancakes, after all), but they did offer a spectacle in the festive mood. Then brandy—just a plain good one—and finally, if Gerald wanted to take a small chance or to show off, a very mild and thin cigar, even if he put it down after a few whiffs. . . . And during all this they would be talking, their minds released by the warmth and the wine and by the emerging phenomenon of their mutual discovery; they would talk till near midnight—father and son, aware of a new relationship. . . . They would gossip, exchange adult confidences, perhaps even a few slightly risqué stories. . . . And then last of all, if the intimacy had proceeded so far, and if Gerald felt that the evening was still young, they might take a taxi to the Place Pigalle for another kind of initiation. Charles believed that a trial crop of wild oats should be sown under experienced sponsorship—nothing extreme, of course—just a visit to one of those rather absurd places where it could do a young man no harm to get his first sight of a row of nude women cavorting so closely that one could see all their imperfections.

How pleasant to think of these things, to plan them gently in his mind while Palan bellowed his abominable French amidst the gilt-framed mirrors and Buhl cabinets that seemed, by their contrasting elegance, to focus the whole eye of the past upon the world’s deplorable present.

⋘ ⋙

On the day of Gerald’s arrival, events at the Conference had been particularly trying. To begin with, Sir Malcolm’s arthritis had forced him to quit at the lunch interval and leave affairs during the afternoon in Charles’s hands, and this, which in normal circumstances would have been both a challenge and an opportunity, turned out much more like an ordeal. For Palan, under the silent surveillance of his own superior, had concentrated upon Charles with a certain grim joyousness that had been just amusing enough to keep the Conference room in the wrong kind of good humor; Charles had a feeling he was being baited, and that even a few of his colleagues were enjoying the performance. Not that Charles lacked weapons of his own. He was sound if somewhat precise in argument; he had an expert’s knowledge of the matters being discussed; he was also patient, often witty, and unfailingly polite. He could not bring himself to show temper, even when he felt it rising within himself; whereas Palan, he suspected, often put on an act of temper when he felt none. Moreover, Charles had acquired a masterly technique of listening with apparent equanimity while he was being ridiculed. “M’sieur Anderson is, of course, a man of much greater diplomatic experience than I,” Palan had mocked, “but I would venture to match my knowledge of the world against his, for when you have probed behind all the statistics in blue books and white papers, when you have got down to the bedrock of reality, what is it that you find? Is it merely a diplomatic game, to be played by those who have been to the right school and college like M’sieur Anderson, or is it life?” And all that sort of thing.

Charles had replied: “M’sieur Palan is in error if he supposes that I regard these proceedings as a game. Since I dislike games I am certainly under no temptation to adopt such an attitude.” (A few titters from his neighbors.) “And as for M’sieur Palan’s knowledge of the world, I have no means of computing it, but I should not readily assume it to be greater than mine, though doubtless it has been of a very different kind of world.” There had been a general laugh at that, but Charles had not been quite certain at whose expense.

Throughout the afternoon they had sparred, and more and more it had seemed to Charles that Palan was regarding him as a personal adversary. By the time of the adjournment Charles could only pray that Sir Malcolm’s arthritis would improve enough for him to take over the following morning. Charles felt that though he had done quite creditably as a substitute, it had worn some frayed edges on his nerves.

His spirits rose, however, as he waited on the platform at the Gare de l’Est. It was good to have a growing-up son, and he thought happily of the corner table at the Cheval Noir, which Henri was doubtless already preparing. The train came in, with the familiar place names attached to its coaches—Berne, Delle, Vesoul, Chaumont, Troyes. . . . It had been Gerald’s first European trip—what magic it must have contained, and now to culminate so fittingly!

Charles was still thinking of that when his son spotted him first. “Hello, Dad. . . . I didn’t really expect you to meet me—I thought you’d be too busy.”

“My dear boy. . . .” They shook hands. “However busy I am, I’d take time off for this, I assure you.”

The noise of the station excused him from saying more. Gerald was instructing the porter who had carried his luggage—a small suitcase—from the train. Charles was tactful enough not to correct or amplify the boy’s halting French, but he did, with his own French, summon a taxi and ask the driver to put the suitcase in the cab. Gerald then tipped the porter a hundred franc note, and Charles told the driver to take them to the Crillon.

As the taxi left the station Charles said: “How times have changed—I can remember when a hundred francs was really money! But the city hasn’t lost its fascination. Did you see much of it on your way out?”

“Not a thing. The train just shunted into some station in the middle of the night. I was half asleep.”

“Ah, yes, the Ceinture.” Charles could not repress an emotion of astonishment—that anyone who had never seen Paris before could allow himself to be taken in and out without even leaving the train for a quick look. “You were here once when you were a baby—just passing through. But this can be called your first real visit.”

“Yes. I know I ought to get a thrill.” The boy was peering through the window. “I must say everything looks a bit run down after Switzerland.”

“Everything is. France, remember, has been through two world wars.”

“And the Swiss have been sitting pretty, I know. But the mountains—the clean air—I think that’s really more in my line than big cities.”

“You went to the right country, then. You look very fit. And still growing—or is it my imagination?”

Gerald was a little shy of his height, which was already six foot one. He laughed. “Oh, I hope not, or I’ll be a freak. I think I’ve stopped, though.”

“I sometimes wish I had an inch or two more myself. Not that five feet nine is really short. But you can look over my head.”

“It’s useful in climbing,” Gerald admitted.

“Did you do much of that?”

“Just Pilatus and the Faulhorn and some of the easier ones.”

Charles was suddenly aware of an emotion which, in a younger man and in connection with a woman, he would have diagnosed as jealousy. “So you got along all right with that schoolmaster—I forget his name?”

“Tubby Conklin? Oh, he isn’t so bad when you get to know him. Not really stuffy—just a bit of a watchdog. I suppose he felt he had to be, with all of us on his hands.”

Stuffy. Charles caught the word as if it had been a hit below the belt, but immediately decided that Gerald was unlikely to have heard of the nickname—and if he had, as he must sooner or later, what did it matter? Perhaps that was one of the confessions that would develop so naturally toward midnight at the Cheval Noir. He imagined an opening. “D’you know what they call me at the Office, Gerald? Stuffy Anderson.” (Pause for merriment.) “I suppose having any sort of nickname’s a good sign—after all, they called Disraeli Dizzy, but you can’t imagine Gladstone ever being called Gladdy. . . . Gladwyn Jebb, perhaps, but not Gladstone. . . . I hope, though, I’m not too stuffy. Now that you’re old enough to judge, you must tell me if ever you think I am.” Perhaps he would be able to talk like that before the evening was over.

Gerald was still staring out of the taxi window. “Where are we going, Dad?”

“The Crillon. My hotel. I thought you might like a bath before dinner. I have to change myself anyhow.”

“Change? You mean—” Gerald looked round and seemed to be studying his father’s attire.

“Well, I had thought of a black tie in your honor.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring—”

“Oh, then it doesn’t matter. I’ll wear what I have on, and if your lounge suit needs pressing the hotel people can do it in a hurry.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Dad, but I’ll have to wear what I have on, too. All my clothes went through in a trunk to London. This bag’s only got souvenirs and things in it—”

What Gerald had on included an open-necked shirt, tweed jacket, and gray flannel trousers.

Charles smiled. “You could have something of mine, but since you’ve grown so tall I rather doubt. . . . Well, the only real essential is a tie, which I can provide. I can also lend you pajamas.”

“Pajamas?”

“In case you forgot to pack them. And don’t worry about a room—the Crillon can fix you up in my suite.”

“But I—I’m—I wasn’t planning to stay overnight. I’m booked through on the boat train from St. Lazare—”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. I’m terribly sorry if—”

Charles was hurt, but did not want to hurt himself more by showing it. “You didn’t say so, and I’m afraid I assumed—”

“I didn’t think it mattered so long as there was time for dinner.”

“Of course. Oh, of course. Though if you wished I daresay even as late as this I could have your train ticket changed—”

“Except that I—I’d—well, actually I’d planned to join up with some of the others on the boat train, some of the people I’ve been with—I sort of promised. . . . And then I’ve got dates in London tomorrow—Mallinson, for one—he has to fix a filling that came loose, so you see. . . .”

“My dear boy, that’s all right—don’t let it bother you. I’m glad you’re careful of your teeth—most important. . . . Well, here we are—the Place de la Concorde—one of the great sights of the world, and the best time to see it is about now when the lights are just coming on. Rather splendid, don’t you think?”

Gerald seemed much more impressed by his father’s suite when they reached it. “The British taxpayer certainly has to shell out for this,” he commented, walking around.

“Only because the British Government is anxious that its representatives abroad should not appear as impoverished as they usually are.”

Gerald grinned. “Are we impoverished?”

“We certainly should be if we had to live on my salary.”

“Ah . . . so the old family fortune’s standing up pretty well?”

Charles was never quite sure when Gerald was having fun with him, or what kind of fun it was. He answered, half seriously: “It isn’t much of a fortune, after inflation and taxes. But you needn’t worry.”

“Oh, I don’t. . . . You know, Dad, if I were you I’d spend every penny during the next ten years or so, then you’d be sure of enjoying yourself. Or is that a crazy idea?”

“Not at all. You’d be surprised how popular it seems to be—hence in part the present state of Europe. But don’t get me on to politics or I shall say the kind of things that annoy Sir Malcolm.”

“Your boss?”

“Boss, chief, or head of department.”

“Like rod, pole, or perch?”

“Exactly.”

“What kind of chap is he?”

“Very able. I’d have you meet him if he were staying here, but he prefers the Embassy. A fine diplomat and—so they say—an exceedingly fine bridge player.”

“I guess all that means you don’t like him much.”

“Oh now, come, come,” remonstrated Charles with restrained glee. “You mustn’t guess anything of the sort. Sir Malcolm and I work very well in harness. But even a horse doesn’t want to be in harness all the time.”

Gerald laughed heartily, and Charles thought that the evening, after a somewhat inauspicious start, was proceeding well.

⋘ ⋙

An hour later they were at the corner table in the Cheval Noir with Henri hovering about them like a benign and elderly angel. Charles introduced Gerald proudly. “Henri, I want you to meet my son. Quite an occasion—his first evening in Paris as well as his seventeenth birthday.”

Henri bowed, but Gerald offered his hand; Charles was pleased at this—it was intelligent of the boy to realize that Henri was not just an ordinary restaurant keeper. After the exchange of civilities Charles added: “Henri is one of mankind’s truest benefactors—his huîtres Mornay put him with Cellini and Michelangelo. Too bad they’re out of season—oysters, I mean.”

After Henri, beaming at the compliment, had gone off, Gerald said: “Do you really think cooking’s an art, like painting, Dad?”

“A much higher art than some modern painting. Anyhow, it’s a polite thing to say to a cook who really is an artist.”

“I suppose being a diplomat you get a lot of practice saying polite things.”

“I wish I got more. I sometimes feel at a disadvantage because I’m not equally proficient in saying nasty things.” He was thinking of Palan.

“Why’s that?”

“Perhaps because the world isn’t getting any better.” Charles rallied himself from the dark reflection. “Though I must admit I see it looking pretty good here and now.” Henri was serving the Vino de Pasto. “I’m very happy to be with you tonight, Gerald. I drink an affectionate toast to your future.”

Gerald grinned embarrassedly, then sipped from his glass. “Thanks, Dad. Is this sherry?”

“Yes. . . . Smoke a cigarette if you like—it’s the only wine that isn’t spoiled by smoking.” Charles, proffering his cigarette case, thought he had conveyed his hint rather tactfully. “I hope you like it.”

“It’s—well, I daresay one could get used to it.”

“Just about my own first reaction. That, I remember, was at a Foundation dinner at Cambridge. I mixed my drinks rather recklessly—with the inevitable result. My gyp told me afterwards I’d tried to festoon the chapel belfry with toilet paper.”

Gerald laughed. “It’s hard to imagine you ever getting drunk.”

“That’s because you think of me as I am today.”

“Or else because I really don’t know you properly.”

The remark, so seemingly cold, was actually warm to Charles; it hinted that Gerald, too, was aware of the barrier, and that such awareness might be a first step toward their joint effort to remove it. He said agreeably: “I’ve often thought that’s one of the biggest drawbacks of a career like mine. Chopping and changing posts, with you in England half the time when you were a baby, then the war came and you went to America, and even after that there was school and we could only meet during the holidays if I happened to be in London. The wonder is we know each other at all. But now you’re getting older and I’m not likely to be abroad so much, things ought to work out better.”

Charles waited for a word of encouragement, then decided that the boy’s friendly face was itself one. He continued: “Besides, I’ll be off duty for good in a few more years. I’d thought of buying a place in the country, if I can find something that isn’t too huge or too cute. How would you like that?”

“You mean a place like Beeching, Dad?”

“Oh no, much humbler . . . but I’m sure you don’t remember Beeching.”

“I do—because I remember Grandfather there.”

“Really?”

“There was a big white fireplace and once a hot coal fell out on the rug and Grandfather squirted soda water over it. I think that’s really the first thing I remember about anything.”

“I don’t recall the incident, but there was certainly a big white marble fireplace in the hall, so perhaps you’re right. . . . Much too big—the fireplaces and everything else—we used to consume fifty tons of coal a year and still the rooms were chilly in the winter. Think of trying to get fifty tons of coal nowadays to heat a private house. . . . No, the place I might look for would be small and modern—just to settle down in after I’ve retired. Not too far out of London, but quiet.”

“You might be lonely. You’re so used to London.”

“Don’t forget there’s the book I’ll be writing.”

“You’re really going to do it?”

Charles smiled; the book was almost a joke because it had been talked about for so long. Whenever Charles said anything witty at a dinner party, which was fairly often, people were always apt to exclaim: “You know, Charles” (or “Stuffy,” if the occasion were intimate or ribald enough), “you really ought to write a book someday,” to which Charles would answer either thoughtfully “Yes, I suppose I might” or confidently “That’s exactly what I intend to do.” But nobody really believed he would, whatever he said; somehow he dined out too often and lived too elegantly to seem capable of such sustained effort. So one day the book would astonish everyone by actually appearing—published by Macmillan, he hoped, and at not more than twenty-five shillings, if the price of things didn’t go up any more. But it would offer a further surprise by being the kind of book few would expect from him—a really serious and authoritative piece of work, in fact, that of a man who ought to have been made an ambassador. Charles could even extract wry satisfaction from the thought that this lesson would be learned too late, for he was fairly certain now that it would be too late. He was disappointed, but realized that the character he had built up for himself would not allow him to show it.

Anyhow, it was his secret intention that the book should reveal rather startlingly that behind the façade he really did know his job, and it pleased him in rueful moods to invent comments he would most like his friends to make—not to him but among themselves. “Really, you know, I’ve read worse. Well documented—almost scholarly in spots. Didn’t think Stuffy had it in him. The Observer gives it the big article—calls it ‘a footnote to history.’ ” The phrase suited Charles’s humility at the shrine of Clio, and also his own experience, derived from Gibbon, that footnotes were apt to be more interesting than the larger print. Not, of course, that there would be much of that sort of thing in it—just a few titbits here and there. . . . Mostly it would deal with the Balkan and Greco-Turkish problems, would record matters of which he had been both witness and student, such as that delineation of the Macedonian frontier that had made him (for what it was worth, and it appeared nowadays to be worth nothing) the greatest living authority on the ethnographic history of the Sanjak of Belar-Novo. (Which was the only unique distinction he ever claimed for himself, and often, like so much else that he said, it raised a laugh.)

So he replied to Gerald, thinking of all this and trying not to seem portentous: “I really ought to tackle the damn thing, Gerald. My career, though far from outstanding, hasn’t been entirely uneventful. . . . Rome—Bucharest—Athens—I happened to be there at interesting times. And other places. Someday I’ll tell you about them.”

“I’m looking forward to the book.”

“Oh yes, that would probably be easier for both of us. You could skip when you were bored.”

Gerald gave his father an appraising glance which he turned into a smile. “You know, Dad, you’re a bit prickly, aren’t you?”

“Prickly?” Now came the perfect cue. “I’ve been called stuffy in my time, but prickly. . . . Well. . . .”

But Gerald passed over “stuffy” without interest. “I mean, you put up your defenses even when nobody’s attacking.”

“Do I? Maybe a conditioned reflex after so many years in the Service. I’ll try to unlearn it when I’m just a retired old has-been writing a few pages a day in that terrible handwriting of mine—or perhaps I ought to learn to type and spare the eyesight of some unfortunate secretary.”

“How long do you think it will take you?”

“Two or three years, maybe more. I won’t mind.”

“Sort of a labor of love?”

“Well, certainly not of profit. As I said, my career hasn’t been outstanding enough to send the public scurrying to the bookshops.”

“Still feeling prickly? I don’t know what’s eating you, but I’d say you haven’t done so badly. Whatever sort of life you’ve had, you’re fifty-three and you don’t look anything like it.”

Charles beamed; from his own son, on his own son’s seventeenth birthday, and at such a moment, there could have come no more timely reassurance. “Fifty-two,” he corrected. “Not fifty-three. I was born at the turn of the century, on July 28, 1900.”

“That’s a fine beginning. The Story of My Life, by Charles Anderson. Chapter One. Early Years.”

“Good heavens no, not that sort of thing at all. It’s my work I shall deal with—I’ll begin when I took up my first post.”

“Why? What’s wrong about the early years? Didn’t you have a good time then?”

“Of course.” Charles seemed slightly embarrassed. “Nothing to complain of. That’s why there wouldn’t be much to write about.”

Charles had just finished prep school in the summer of 1914; he started at Brookfield while those tremendous opening battles of the First World War were ending an age. The Somme, Jutland, and Paschendaele came to him later as headlines in the daily papers that reached Brookfield about mid-morning, at which time the school butler clamped them to the stands in the reading room. Not till the lunch hour did the boys get a hasty glimpse over the shoulders of other boys, and usually after they had satisfied a much greater eagerness to discover who was on the list for the afternoon’s compulsory games. There was neither stupidity nor callousness in this—merely the knack (so often necessary in life) of putting first things second. Many of them had brothers and some fathers in the war; all knew that if it lasted long enough they would be in it themselves. Charles had joined the school cadet corps, and with more effort than zeal was picking up the rudiments of being a soldier, drilling twice a week under a ferocious sergeant, who taught him exactly where to lunge into an enemy’s body with a bayonet. He did not think he would be very good at it, and was comforted to learn from Old Boys on leave from the front that most fighting was done with other weapons. In the evenings, when drills and games and lessons were over for the day, he relaxed in his School House study talking to friends and drinking coffee—sometimes, when he was on his own, reading poetry. He even wrote some, which was duly published in the Brookfeldian under the pseudonym “Vincio.” It had no special merit.

The school was then in charge of old “Chips,” who had been summoned from retirement to plug a hole in the wartime shortage of masters. Chips ran things with a benignity that made Brookfield more than tolerable to several boys who might otherwise have found it unpleasant. Charles was among them—by no means a misfit, but temperamentally not what many people would have called a typical public schoolboy. Since Chips doubted that such an animal existed Charles got along with him very well indeed, and it was Chips who made him a prefect despite warnings that boys who were bad at games were rarely good in authority. Charles, however, proved excellent—somewhat on the lenient side, but wise in his decisions and a steady handler of crises. One of his duties was to keep order in the junior dormitories during the hour before lights-out, and he found this easiest to do by being friendly and chatty. The youngsters liked him and called him “Andy,” a nickname that spread throughout the school. On Sunday nights he would read aloud a chapter from some favorite bloodcurdler; he read well and enjoyed reading, and once, during a tense moment in Dracula, a listener fainted—an event which gave Charles singular and lasting renown.