Agent of Peace by Jennifer Hobhouse Balme Page A

and of her attitude, her powers, her feeling. A good man I feel sure and a tremendously hard worker – and so sensitive!
    I followed in the tram to the Volkshaus and dropped exhausted into bed.
    Monday, June 26th Warm and misty damp, occasional showers. Everything sticky. I had my trunks half packed hoping for the best, and the moment the Consulate was open I was there to learn my fate. To my relief the visé was given without another word, nor anything to fill in, only the Consul badgered me a good deal with questions about Mrs Holbach and wanted her address. This I would not let out – it was not my business – and I told him definitely Mrs Holbach was a chance acquaintance merely, and I was in no sense her keeper – that she was living in Switzerland quietly with her husband and family and I could not understand why she should be worried. He dropped it and then said I must provide more photographs and that, though all else was complete, more photographs were necessary. The time was short. I pleaded – he was obdurate and I had to drag my tired, agitated body from shop to shop begging for a hasty snapshot likeness. It was 12.30 p.m. before I found one – was photoed and promised them by 2.30 p.m. Then I ventured to go and buy my tickets provisionally, got some lunch – sent Phoebe to the Wokers and Kochers with the news and worked on with the packing. I had barely time to run out and get an omelet and be at the photographers at the hour. Phoebe as usual tiresome, amusing herself in a shop, and keeping me waiting. A truly impossible girl! This delay on her part when every moment was of consequence and my fatigue and anxiety beyond words, added to my agitation. The photographs were given me in a large square envelope and I just put them into my green linen bag (the one Oliver gave me), which I always carried for passports and papers. I had also put into this bag after lunch my letter written the previous day to Dr. Aletta Jacobs and of which I have already spoken. And therein hangs a tale! As I have said I could not send it till absolutely sure of my departure and the French visé had still to be secured. I wanted also a lucid moment in which to read it over once more to assure myself it was quite clear – and so I had put it into this precious bag thinking that when Phoebe mounted this long flight to the Consul’s office I could read it again while waiting in the vestibule below. As also I have said the day was warm and moist, everything was sticky and also alas! was the gum of this open letter or that of the large envelope containing my new photographs, or both. Arrived at the Consulate I sat down to get my breath and opened my bag to give Phoebe the photographs to take upstairs. At that moment the hall door opened and one of the officials of the office passed in from his luncheon. I bowed, made way for him to pass and said impulsively: ‘May I hand you the photographs which I was asked to procure,’ and gave him the packet. Phoebe followed him upstairs and I was left, quiet and alone, in the cool dim hall. Then I bethought me of my letter that this was the moment to read it over carefully. Imagine my horror to find on opening my bag that it was not there. I searched and searched again – all no use. I felt so sure I had put it there. Could it have been left on my toilet table after all? I went through every action of the day but could come to no other conclusion. I was sure ’twas in my bag – yet it wasn’t – so it must be in hotel. I waited endlessly – Phoebe did not come down. Why such delay? The passports had been entirely ready with the exception of gumming on the photo and I feared missing the hour at the French Consul. After an interminable interval Phoebe came down – with the passports – and horrors, in her hand my lost letter saying in her cool detached way the official said he thought this ‘was not meant for them’. I