George Orwell - Down and Out in Paris and London

bad luck far better than one can imagine Englishmen

of the same class doing. There are exceptions, of

course. Boris told me of an exiled Russian duke whom

he had once met, who frequented expensive

restaurants. The duke would find out if there was a

Russian officer among the waiters, and, after he had

dined, call him in a friendly way to his table.

« Ah, » the duke would say,

"so you are an old

soldier, like myself? These are bad days, eh? Well, well,

the Russian soldier fears nothing. And what was your

regiment?"

"The so-and-so, sir," the waiter would answer.

"A very gallant regiment! I inspected them in 1912.

By the way, I have unfortunately left my notecase at

home. A Russian officer will, I know, oblige me with

three hundred francs."

If the waiter had three hundred francs he would hand

it over, and, of course, never see it again. The duke

made quite a lot in this way. Probably the waiters did

not mind being swindled. A duke is a duke, even in

exile.

It was through one of these Russian refugees that

Boris heard of something which seemed to promise

money. Two days after we had pawned the overcoats,

Boris said to me rather mysteriously:

"Tell me,

mon ami , have you any political opinions?"

"No," I said.

" Neither have I. Of course, one is always a patriot;

but still--- Did not Moses say something about spoiling

the Egyptians? As an Englishman you will have read

the Bible. What I mean is, would you object to earning

money from Communists?"

"No, of course not."

"Well, it appears that there is a Russian secret

society in Paris who might do something for us. They

are Communists; in fact they are agents for the Bol-

sheviks. They act as a friendly society, get in touch

with exiled Russians, and try to get them to turn

Bolshevik. My friend has joined their society, and he

thinks they would help us if we went to them."

"But what can they do for us? In any case they

won't help me, as I'm not a Russian."

"That is just the point. It seems that they are corre-

spondents for a Moscow paper, and they want some

articles on English politics. If we go to them at once

they may commission you to write the articles."

"Me? But I don't know anything about politics."

«

Merde ! Neither do they. Who does know anything

about politics? It's easy. All you have to do is to copy it

out of the English papers. Isn't there a Paris

Daily Mail ?

Copy it from that."

"But the

Daily Mail is a Conservative paper. They

loathe the Communists."

"Well, say the opposite of what the

Daily Mail says,

then you

can't be wrong. We mustn't throw this chance

away,

mon ami . It might mean hundreds of francs"

I did not like the idea, for the Paris police are very

hard on Communists, especially if they are foreigners,

and I was already under suspicion. Some months

before, a detective had seen me come out of the office

of a Communist weekly paper, and I had had a great

deal of trouble with the police. If they caught me going

to this secret society, it might mean deportation. However,

the chance seemed too good to be missed. That after-

noon Boris's friend, another waiter, came to take us to

the rendezvous. I cannot remember the name of the

street-it was a shabby street running south from the

Seine bank, somewhere near the Chamber of Deputies.

Boris's friend insisted on great caution. We loitered

casually down the street, marked the doorway we were

to enter-it was a laundry-and then strolled back again,

keeping an eye on all the windows and cafés. If the

place were known as a haunt of Communists it was

probably watched, and we intended to go home if we

saw anyone at all like a detective. I was frightened, but

Boris enjoyed these conspiratorial proceedings, and

quite forgot that he was about to trade with the slayers

of his parents.

.

When we were certain that the coast was clear we

dived quickly into the doorway. In the laundry was a

Frenchwoman ironing clothes, who told us that "the

Russian gentlemen" lived up a staircase across the

courtyard. We went up several flights of dark stairs

and emerged on to a landing. A strong, surly-looking

young man, with hair growing low on his head, was

standing at the top of the stairs. As I came up he

looked at me suspiciously, barred the way with his

arm and said something in Russian.

"

Mot d'ordre ! » he said sharply when I did not

answer.

I stopped, startled. I had not expected passwords.

"

Mot d'ordre ! » repeated the Russian.

Boris's friend, who was walking behind, now came

forward and said something in Russian, either the pass

word or an explanation. At this, the surly young man

seemed satisfied, and led us into a small, shabby room

with frosted windows. It was like a very poverty-

stricken office, with propaganda posters in Russian

lettering and a huge, crude picture of Lenin tacked on

the walls. At the table sat an unshaven Russian in shirt

sleeves, addressing newspaper wrappers from a pile in

front of him. As I came in he spoke to me in French,

with a bad accent.

"This is very careless!" he exclaimed fussily. "Why

have you come here without a parcel of washing?"

"Washing?"

"Everybody who comes here brings washing. It looks

as though they were going to the laundry downstairs.

Bring a good, large bundle next time. We don't want the

police on our tracks."

This was even more conspiratorial than I had ex-

pected. Boris sat down in the only vacant chair, and

there was a great deal of talking in Russian. Only the

unshaven man talked; the surly one leaned against the

wall with his eyes on me, as though he still suspected

me. It was queer, standing in the little secret room with

its revolutionary posters, listening to a conversation

which I did not understand a word. The Russians of

talked quickly and eagerly, with smiles and shrugs of the

shoulders. I wondered what it was all about. They would

be calling each other "little father," I thought, and "little

dove," and « Ivan Àlexandrovitch," like the characters in

Russian novels. And the talk would be of revolutions.

The unshaven man would be saying firmly, "We never

argue. Controversy is a bourgeois pastime. Deeds are our

arguments." Then I gathered that it was not this exactly.

Twenty francs was being demanded, for an entrance fee

apparently, and Boris was promising to pay it (we had

just seventeen francs in the world). Finally Boris

produced our precious store of money and paid five

francs on account.

At this the surly man looked less suspicious, and sat

down on the edge of the table. The unshaven one began

to question me in French, making notes on a slip of

paper. Was I a Communist? he asked. By sympathy, I

answered; I had never joined any organisation. Did I

understand the political situation in England? Oh, of

course, of course. I mentioned the names of various

Ministers, and made some contemptuous remarks about

the Labour Party. And what about

Le Sport ? Could I do

articles on

Le Sport ? (Football and Socialism have some

mysterious connection on the Continent.) Oh, of

course, again. Both men nodded gravely. The unshaven