In the vocabulary of the daily press "well-informed circles" have by now been relegated to a place of secondary importance. On those very frequent days when foreign and diplomatic correspondents find themselves without any credible information to report, it is their custom to appease their editors with modest forecasts of their own. On these occasions, it is usual to evoke as authority some anonymous source. If, for instance, they have heard something from the postman, they attribute it to "a semi-official statement"; if they have fallen into conversation with a stranger at a bar, they can conscientiously describe him as "a source that has hitherto proved unimpeachable". It is only when the journalist is reporting a whim of his own, and one to which he attaches minor importance, that he defines it as the opinion of "well-informed circles".
At home, however, in ordinary social intercourse, "well-informed circles" still retain their prestige. It is significant of the diffidence with which we, as a nation, hold our opinions that the English for "on dit" is "They say". The Parisian repots what is being said at the café by his cronies and by himself; the Londoner pays homage to the enigmatic They—the people in the know. To be well-informed in England does not mean—as it used to in Germany and still does in the United States —to have studied the subject, written a thesis and earned a diploma. It means to be in constant, intimate association with the Great. Nothing is more helpful to a shy young man than to get this reputation. It is by no means difficult. Like all arts, it is simply a matter of the proper use of raw material.
The difficulty is not in meeting the Great—most of us from time to time find ourselves within measurable distance of them—but in making the proper use of our meetings. Suppose, for instance, you are asked to luncheon at the last moment by a harassed hostess and, on arrival, see in the distance a face which has long been familiar to you in newsreels and caricatures. You are introduced and drift away to a more obscure part of the room. At the table, he sits six places from you. You are dimly aware of his expressing a liking for porridge. He leaves immediately after luncheon. You wait until he is clear of the hall and then go, too. Nothing much there, you think, to qualify you for a member of the "well-informed circles".
"Mary had the Prime Minister to lunch today," you report.
"Oh, how exciting. What did he say about Palestine?"
"I don't think he mentioned it."
"Oh."
No ice cut. But try it this way: "I had luncheon with the Prime Minister today."
"Oh, how exciting. What did he say about Palestine?"
"Mary was there, and, as you know, the PM never talks in front of her. He won't be saying anything about Palestine this week anyway. Ask me next Thursday, and I may be able to tell you something rather interesting."
When celebrities fail, it is always possible to introduce quite unknown names with such an air of authority that no one dares challenge you. This is particularly useful when you meet a rival Well-Informed Man and are getting the worst of the encounter. You have asserted, for example, that the Paraguayan government is in the hands of a military clique, you have been caught on this by a sudden disclosure of superior knowledge. "What about Hernandes, Cervantes and Alvarez?" you are suddenly asked. You have never heard of them; nor, in all probability, has your rival. Counter smartly with, "You need not worry about them. Perhaps I ought not say that. I got it only this morning from Henry Scudamore himself." There is only one answer to this particular gambit. "Ah yes. I suppose Scudamore was cutting your hair at the time?" It is conclusive, but it makes a lifelong enemy. Generally speaking, a certain reciprocal loyalty should be observed by "well-informed men".
Of these, there are two distinct schools, both of which enjoy wide popularity at the moment. Anyone who wishes to make a social career on these lines should decide early what school he wishes to belong to and follow it without deviation. His temperament must be the deciding factor.
The simpler, perhaps, is the Pseudo-Secret Service. Those who seek admission to this honourable corps must have travelled a little in the Near East and, if possible, beyond. They must exhibit and interest in languages—a different and vastly easier thing than a knowledge of them. If, for instance, you are caught out by the menu, say blandly, "I've never been able to pay much attention to Latin languages," or, better still, "the Romance Group"; and to such direct questions as, "Do you speak Magyar?" answer, "Not nearly as well as I ought." It is a good policy to introduce linguistic questions whenever possible; for instance, if someone says he has spent three weeks in Cairo, instead of asking about the hotels, say, "Tell me, is much demotic Armenian spoken there now?", and if big-game hunting in Kenya is mentioned, say, "I suppose one can muddle along with Swahili, Arabic, and Kikuyu?" You must also be an expert ion accents—"...she spoke Catalan with a strong Cretan accent..."
In appearance, the Pseudo-Secret Service are conventional. From time to time, they must be seen in public with a very queer company and, when asked about it, reply, "Well in a way it's more or less my job." They must have a keen memory for diplomatic appointments, not only our own, but the whole boiling. "...Going to Warsaw? Let's see, who have the Siamese got there now?..." You can also flatter your friends and enhance your own prestige by gibing them little commissions to execute for you: "Going to Paris? I wonder if you could find out something for me. I should very much like to know who owns a little weekly called Le Faux Bonhomme..." Or "...I wonder if you'd mind posting a letter for me in Budapest. I'd prefer the government not to have it in their hands..."
Above all, you must assume a mysterious compulsion behind all your movements. "I may have to go abroad next week. Where? Well, I shan't really know until I reach Paris. It depends on what I hear when I get there. What shall I do? Well," (with a knowing smile) "I expect I shall play a little golf. I find it is a very good tip to take golf-clubs about with me abroad. They save one a lot of awkward questions."
The strength of this school is that, as one of its prime objects is evasion, it is almost impossible to be shown up; the weakness is that it is very easy, in a confidential or convivial moment, to show oneself up. It also imposes restraints that often become irksome. For more boisterous and expansive spirits, the Bluff -and-Glory school is recommended.
Personal appearance counts for a lot here: an opulent and in-artisitc Bohemianism is the effect aimed at. the Pseudo-Secret-Service have affiliations with the Russian Ballet, Wiltshire and the fashionable weeklies, the Bluff-and-Glory boys move about the Stock Exchange, Fleet Street, and the House of Commons smoking-room. They have definite traces of City soot behind the ears, and they are usually too busy to visit the barber. They have hoarse and rather hectoring voices, a gangster vocabulary, effusive geniality. They eschew moderation and either drink to excess or not at all; they are boastful in love and pursue rather accessible quarry. They know the names of everyone with more than twenty thousand pounds a year and can furnish, unasked, exact details of the disposition of their fortunes. "Old So-and-s moved back one hundred thousand in Commodities," they say, or, "I will hand it to So-and-so, he made a very pretty clean-up last week in Oxides." In Parliament, they know all the gossip from the lobbies and Whips' offices. Cabinet secrets are not secrets to them, particularly in regard to personal dissensions. In spite of their ruggedness of appearance, they have a keen regard for personal comfort, and few of them have travelled further than Los Angeles and the Lido.
An essential quality is resilience in face of exposure. For example, you have been dominating the table for some time about the character of Catalan nationalism, and, towards the end of your discourse, you reveal the fact that you thought Bilbao and Guernica were in Catalonia. Do not be put out. Either say offensively, "It's no use trying to talk reason to Communists"—of "Fascists", at will; or shout, "I'm not talking about Catalonia; I'm talking about the Basques," or "Who said anything about Bilbao? I'm talking about Barcelona," or "My dear fellow, look at the map. I'm not here to teach you elementary geography." Any of these replies, or all of them in one fine perforation, should suffice to clear your reputation. Treat all discussion as though you were being heckled in a tough ward at an election. Rely on the impromptu statistic; e.g., someone says, "All ships' engineers seem to be Scotsmen"; reply, "The latest Mercantile Marine figures give the percentage at 78.4 recurring." Attribute all facts of common knowledge to personal information; for instance, do not say, "What a wet week it has been," but, "They tell me at Greenwich they have registered the highest rainfall for six weeks." Instead of "I see there have been a lot of jewel robberies lately," say, "THe Chief Commissioner tells me that Scotland Yard is up against it." Always refer to big-business concerns by the name of their chief magnate. "Ashfield is making a new station," "Mond is putting up the price of pills," "Write to Astor about it."
By following these simple instructions and studying the methods of those who have already made good in the job, you can assure yourself a glamorous youth, prosperous middle age, the title of Grand Old Man, and finally some laudatory obituaries.
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