though too excited—that his remark was typical of
a political pedant, that the millions compelled into commerce had among them as many subtle and fine intelligences as the whole body of professional master-minds, and that one of the major causes
of strain and impatience in the world was that the damned economists wouldn’t grant to the trader any higher ambition than the making of money.
The man in the dark glasses took them off. He had looked like a somewhat blank and massive Rudyard Kipling, but now I knew that I had seen his face before. Little wrinkles that seemed due to
intensity of effort rather than humour radiated from the corners of his eyes, and beneath were heavy pouches; but the orbs were clear and magnificent.
‘The higher ambitions of the trader,’ he repeated. ‘Interesting how quickly the pendulum swings! Now I should have thought that you, in England especially, had had quite enough
trouble with the higher ambitions of the trader.’
‘I mean his right to be considered an altruistic thinker, failing any evidence to the contrary,’ I said. ‘To put it crudely, I suggest that the average commercial
traveller is a deal less prejudiced than the average intellectual.’
‘The interesting thing is that you believe that,’ he answered. ‘I don’t. I think your opinion is merely a reaction against the pseudo-science of the politicians. But we
must talk it out some other time. On your next visit, perhaps.’
These last words of his were, I think, a sort of casting vote. None of them showed any immediate change of mood. Even Elisa did not yet sit down. I was intensely curious both then and afterwards
to know how the discussion before dinner had gone, but since all were determined to create the illusion that there had never been any discussion at all, I tried to live up to their manners. It is
my guess that Gisorius would have preferred me to have no next visit anywhere, and that for Osterling, who always thought in human symbols, the possible damage I might do was nothing compared to
the certainty of upsetting Elisa’s balance and energy.
‘It’s the old question of the missionaries and the trader,’ said Osterling with a friendly smile. ‘We need you because you know the country.’
I said, more to Elisa than to him, that they seemed to be managing very well in Damascus. Elisa replied impatiently:
‘My dear, I was fifteen when I learned how to bribe an official without hurting his dignity.’
‘I will explain my own case, which is typical,’ said the stranger, ‘by the way, I think you have recognized me?’
‘I’ve only got so far as thinking I ought to,’ I replied. ‘Your face is familiar to me from newspaper photographs before the war. And something you stood for I
liked.’
‘So did I,’ he said. ‘We were on our way to a world then, But there is no return. My name, Mr. Amberson, is Czoldy.’
Czoldy, of course! His personality had fascinated both journalists and public in the ’thirties. In the League of Nations debates he used to dissect the soul and intentions of Nazi
statesmen with an exquisite irony that couldn’t be openly resented and yet was unanswerable. It was odd to think of so passionate a European at Kasr-el-Sittat, but what might be in
Czoldy’s mind after the destruction of his life’s work and ten years of poverty, prison camps and humiliation was beyond my conjecture.
‘Are you here for good?’ I asked eagerly.
‘My dear sir, I wish I were! No, I am on the permanent staff of the United Nations. Where else should I be? I am like one of those palace servants who were slaughtered to attend their
royal master in the grave. We bear the seals of the nations, and there is no flesh on our hands. But I was giving you an example of our difficulties. Czoldy may visit Turkey. Why not? It is better,
however, that he should not be known to have visited Kasr-el-Sittat. So he must come by paths that seem to him, at his age, unnecessarily
a political pedant, that the millions compelled into commerce had among them as many subtle and fine intelligences as the whole body of professional master-minds, and that one of the major causes
of strain and impatience in the world was that the damned economists wouldn’t grant to the trader any higher ambition than the making of money.
The man in the dark glasses took them off. He had looked like a somewhat blank and massive Rudyard Kipling, but now I knew that I had seen his face before. Little wrinkles that seemed due to
intensity of effort rather than humour radiated from the corners of his eyes, and beneath were heavy pouches; but the orbs were clear and magnificent.
‘The higher ambitions of the trader,’ he repeated. ‘Interesting how quickly the pendulum swings! Now I should have thought that you, in England especially, had had quite enough
trouble with the higher ambitions of the trader.’
‘I mean his right to be considered an altruistic thinker, failing any evidence to the contrary,’ I said. ‘To put it crudely, I suggest that the average commercial
traveller is a deal less prejudiced than the average intellectual.’
‘The interesting thing is that you believe that,’ he answered. ‘I don’t. I think your opinion is merely a reaction against the pseudo-science of the politicians. But we
must talk it out some other time. On your next visit, perhaps.’
These last words of his were, I think, a sort of casting vote. None of them showed any immediate change of mood. Even Elisa did not yet sit down. I was intensely curious both then and afterwards
to know how the discussion before dinner had gone, but since all were determined to create the illusion that there had never been any discussion at all, I tried to live up to their manners. It is
my guess that Gisorius would have preferred me to have no next visit anywhere, and that for Osterling, who always thought in human symbols, the possible damage I might do was nothing compared to
the certainty of upsetting Elisa’s balance and energy.
‘It’s the old question of the missionaries and the trader,’ said Osterling with a friendly smile. ‘We need you because you know the country.’
I said, more to Elisa than to him, that they seemed to be managing very well in Damascus. Elisa replied impatiently:
‘My dear, I was fifteen when I learned how to bribe an official without hurting his dignity.’
‘I will explain my own case, which is typical,’ said the stranger, ‘by the way, I think you have recognized me?’
‘I’ve only got so far as thinking I ought to,’ I replied. ‘Your face is familiar to me from newspaper photographs before the war. And something you stood for I
liked.’
‘So did I,’ he said. ‘We were on our way to a world then, But there is no return. My name, Mr. Amberson, is Czoldy.’
Czoldy, of course! His personality had fascinated both journalists and public in the ’thirties. In the League of Nations debates he used to dissect the soul and intentions of Nazi
statesmen with an exquisite irony that couldn’t be openly resented and yet was unanswerable. It was odd to think of so passionate a European at Kasr-el-Sittat, but what might be in
Czoldy’s mind after the destruction of his life’s work and ten years of poverty, prison camps and humiliation was beyond my conjecture.
‘Are you here for good?’ I asked eagerly.
‘My dear sir, I wish I were! No, I am on the permanent staff of the United Nations. Where else should I be? I am like one of those palace servants who were slaughtered to attend their
royal master in the grave. We bear the seals of the nations, and there is no flesh on our hands. But I was giving you an example of our difficulties. Czoldy may visit Turkey. Why not? It is better,
however, that he should not be known to have visited Kasr-el-Sittat. So he must come by paths that seem to him, at his age, unnecessarily
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