Mark was examining himself in his bedroom mirror, a small mirror suitable for a schoolboy brushing his hair, not for a grown man. It was a dull afternoon, he was bored and anxious. It was more than a week since his examination, he’d heard nothing, he was sure he must have failed.
There were books beside his bed, more on the table in the corner, others spilling over the floor. Books in German and French, on art and architecture, novels, biographies, history. His mother and Wilson had protested and he’d been given another bookcase but that was full already. His books were his friends, they were always with him. So were his paintings, or rather the prints after early Italian Renaissance pictures he’d bought when he was fourteen, and the little portrait of him Irene had done just before she was married. One day he would be able to buy serious paintings.
It was his books that made him feel like a real person. And so did his writing, the essays on historical themes he might one day improve and publish, the book on Renaissance Germany for which he’d done a great deal of reading, the articles he’d written for journals whose editors his mother knew.
Looking in a mirror was not a sensible or manly occupation, but after all, artists painting self-portraits did it to understand themselves better. Anyway, was it necessary to be sensible and manly in private? He considered what his examiners would have seen. Brown hair, rather large eyes, mouth small. Perhaps a smile would help. He tried one, it was not an improvement. He wondered, could any girl ever find him attractive?
If he did fail the exam, what would people think of him? The reputation for cleverness – the school prizes, the Cambridge scholarship, the starred First – had always been his last resort when he felt unconfident.
If he failed, what would this timid-looking person do with his life? Try for the Civil Service? The Church – bishop yes, curate no? Journalism? The Bar? None appealed. He’d be compelled to have more serious conversations with his father and he’d be sent off to meet distinguished men for advice. But it would be public knowledge that he was second-rate. And what was worse, he’d have to go on living in this schoolboy’s bedroom under his mother’s eye.
There was a knock. He leapt away from the mirror. In came Wilson with a telegram. She seemed disposed to wait. The whole household was sharing Mark’s suspense.
‘Thank you, Wilson,’ he said firmly, and she went out (though probably not far). He looked at the outside of the telegram. Did it feel positive? He opened it slowly.
It was good news. He had passed, in first place.
He grinned. It was not in his nature to shout in triumph. But his future was decided. Paris? St Petersburg? How soon before he became a Head of Mission?
He looked at himself again. When his face was smiling, it probably would do for an ambassador’s face. It was not so bad after all.