Diplomats are like rock stars: imperturbable beings traveling through the world with vast entourages. The entourage is more interesting than the ambassador, according to Nicolson – particularly the drunken Cockney valets. To the right kind of overcivilized English writer (Harold is almost at the level of Lytton Strachey) this life is a swerving farce.
Opening at random:
'His scholarship was incontestable; his knowledge of foreign politics sincere and unequaled: he was intimate with everybody of even incidental importance from Archangel to Algeciras; and he was always right. His gift of prophecy was in truth amazing. One would have read that morning of a massacre at Kustendil. “Ah, yes,” the professor would sigh, “it is a pity. Although I warned Guéchoff so long ago as ’98…”'