George Orwell - Down and Out in Paris and London
"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
one said:
"
Evidemment, you have a thorough knowledge of
conditions in England. Could you undertake to write a
series of articles for a Moscow weekly paper? We will
give you the particulars."
"Certainly."
"Then, comrade, you will hear from us by the first
post to-morrow. Or possibly the second post. Our rate of
pay is a hundred and fifty francs an article. Remember to
bring a parcel of washing next time you come. Au
revoir, comrade."
We went downstairs, looked carefully out of the
laundry to see if there was anyone in the street, and
slipped out. Boris was wild with joy. In a sort of sacri-
ficial ecstasy he rushed into the nearest tobacconist's
and spent fifty centimes on a cigar. He came out thump-
ing his stick on the pavement and beaming.
"At last! At last! Now,
mon ami, our fortune really
is made. You took them in finely. Did you hear him
call you comrade? A hundred and fifty francs an
article-
nom de Dieu, what luck!"
Next morning when I heard the postman I rushed
down to the bistro for my letter; to my disappointment,
it had not come. I stayed at home for the second post;
still no letter. When three days had gone by and I had 4
not heard from the secret society, we gave up hope,
deciding that they must have found somebody else to do
their articles.
Ten days later we made another visit to the office of
the secret society, taking care to bring a parcel that
looked like washing. And the secret society had van-
ished! The woman in the laundry knew nothing-she
simply said that «
ces messieurs" had left some days
ago, after trouble about the rent. What fools we looked,
standing there with our parcel! But it was a consolation
that we had paid only five francs instead of twenty.
And that was the last we ever heard of the secret
society. Who or what they really were, nobody knew.
Personally I do not think they had anything to do with
the Communist Party; I think they were simply
swindlers, who preyed upon Russian refugees by ex-
tracting entrance fees to an imaginary society. It was
quite safe, and no doubt they are still doing it in some
other city. They were clever fellows, and played their
part admirably. Their office looked exactly as a secret
Communist office should look, and as for that touch
about bringing a parcel of washing, it was genius.
IX
FOR three more days we continued traipsing about
looking for work, coming home for diminishing meals
of soup and bread in my bedroom. There were now two
gleams of hope. In the first place, Boris had heard of a
possible job at the Hôtel X., near the Place de la
Concorde, and in the second, the
patron of the new
restaurant in the Rue du Commerce had at last come
back. We went down in the afternoon and saw him. On
the way Boris talked of the vast fortunes we should
make if we got this job, and on the importance of
making a good impression on the
patron.
"Appearance-appearance is everything, mon ami. Give
me a new suit
and I will borrow a thousand francs by
dinner-time. What a pity I did not buy a collar
when we had money. I turned my collar inside out this
morning; but what is the use, one side is as dirty as the
other. Do you think I look hungry, mon ami? »
"You look pale."
"Curse it, what can one do on bread and potatoes?
It is fatal to look hungry. It makes people want to kick
you. Wait."
He stopped at a jeweller's window and smacked his
cheeks sharply to bring the blood into them. Then, before
the flush had faded, we hurried into the restaurant and
introduced ourselves to the
patron.
The
patron was a short, fattish, very dignified man
with wavy grey hair, dressed in a smart, doublebreasted
flannel suit and smelling of scent. Boris told me that he
too was an ex-colonel of the Russian Army. His wife was
there too, a horrid, fat Frenchwoman with a dead-white
face and scarlet lips, reminding me of cold veal and
tomatoes. The patron greeted Boris genially, and they
talked together in Russian for a few minutes. I stood in the
background, preparing to tell some big lies about my
experience as a dishwasher.
