The Legend of Diplomacy (The Art of Exquisite Poison)

They say that language was given to man to conceal his thoughts. This is only partially true. Language was given to plebeians to lie. Diplomacy, however, was granted to the chosen few to conceal the absence of thoughts.

What is diplomacy? It is the art of saying "Go to hell!" with such warmth and concern that the opponent immediately begins packing their bags, anticipating an exciting journey. It is the ability to pet a dog while the muzzle is not yet ready.

The First Consultant

The history of diplomacy began not in the embassy offices of Vienna, but in the Garden of Eden. The Serpent was not a villain. He was the first cultural attaché. When the Serpent offered Eve the apple, he didn't lie. God forbid, diplomats don't lie—they "contextualize the truth."

— "Will you die?" the Serpent asked ingratiatingly, adjusting an invisible tie.

— "What vulgar simplifications. Let's put it this way: consumption of this agricultural product will lead to an irreversible transformation of your ontological status. You will become... more informed."

Eve signed this tacit pact. Adam joined the consensus. Humanity was expelled from Paradise, but the Serpent got a promotion. He proved the main principle of diplomacy: it doesn't matter what is written in the contract; what matters is how you interpret it.

Prince of Lies

Centuries passed. Diplomacy grew coarser until Charles Maurice de Talleyrand appeared. The lame devil in silk stockings. The man who sold everyone. The King, the Republic, the Directory, the Emperor, the King again. Moreover, he managed to sell some of them twice, getting a discount for bulk.

Once Talleyrand was asked why he changed sides so often. He merely raised an eyebrow and replied:

— "I never betrayed regimes. I just turned out to be faster than them. Betrayal is merely a matter of time. He who foresees—governs."

He elevated hypocrisy to the rank of high art. At the Congress of Vienna, while monarchs divided the map of Europe, Talleyrand divided oysters and redrew borders over dessert, simply because the sauce was successful.

War and Paper

The apotheosis of diplomacy became the Great War of two empires. The cause of the conflict was forgotten even before it began (it seems someone bowed incorrectly to the monarch's portrait), but the machine of destruction was launched. Generals sharpened sabers. Cannons were loaded.

A formality remained: to deliver the Note of Declaration of War. Two of the greatest ambassadors met on neutral ground in a tent of Chinese silk.

— "We declare war on you!" exclaimed Ambassador A.

— "Accepted," nodded Ambassador B. — "But allow me to note, Your Note is written on 'ivory' colored paper. According to the protocol of 1745, ultimatums are written on 'baked milk' colored paper."

— "What an oversight!" Ambassador A was horrified. — "We will rewrite it."

A month later they met again.

— "Now the paper is correct," agreed Ambassador B. — "But the font! You used italics with serifs. This looks like a wedding invitation, not a threat of destruction. This is lèse-majesté."

— "Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Ambassador A. — "We will immediately convene a calligraphy commission."

Years passed. Ambassadors coordinated the shade of sealing wax. They argued whether it was permissible to use a quill from the left wing of a goose or only from the right. They discussed whether the courier delivering the note should knock on the door three times or four.

When the ideal, flawless, calligraphically verified War Note was finally ready and signed, a terrible thing was revealed. There was no one to deliver it to. The emperors had died of gout. The generals had passed away from boredom. And the armies... the armies simply went home because the soldiers' expiration date had run out.

War did not happen. Diplomacy won. For there is nothing more peaceful than the endless coordination of procedural issues.