George Orwell - Down and Out in Paris and London

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.

Then the

patron came over towards me. I shuffled

uneasily, trying to look servile. Boris had rubbed it into

me that a

plongeur is a slave's slave, and I expected the

patron to treat me like dirt. To my astonishment, he seized

me warmly by the hand.

"So you are an Englishman!" he exclaimed. "But how

charming! I need not ask, then, whether you are a golfer?"

«

Mais certainement , » I said, seeing that this was ex-

pected of me.

"All my life I have wanted to play golf. Will you, my

dear

monsieur , be so kind as to show me a few of the

principal strokes?"

Apparently this was the Russian way of doing busi-

ness. The patron listened attentively while I explained the

difference between a driver and an iron, and then

suddenly informed me that it was all entendu; Boris was

to be

maitre d'hôtel when the restaurant opened, and I

plongeur

, with a chance of rising to lavatory attendant if

trade was good. When would the restaurant open? I

asked. "Exactly a fortnight from to-day," the patron

answered grandly (he had a manner of waving his hand

and flicking off his cigarette ash at the same time, which

looked very grand), "exactly a fortnight from to-day, in

time for lunch." Then, with obvious pride, he showed us

over the restaurant.

It was a smallish place, consisting of a bar, a dining-

room, and a kitchen no bigger than the average bath-

room. The

patron was decorating it in a trumpery

"picturesque" style (he called it «

le Normand »; it was a

matter of sham beams stuck on the plaster, and the like)

and proposed to call it the Auberge de Jehan Cottard, to

give a medieval effect. He had a leaflet printed, full of lies

about the historical associations of the quarter, and this

leaflet actually claimed, among other things, that there

had once been an inn on the site of the restaurant which

was frequented by Charlemagne. The

patron was very

pleased with this touch. He was also having the bar

decorated with indecent pictures by an artist from the

Salon. Finally he gave us each an expensive cigarette,

and after some more talk he went home.

I felt strongly that we should never get any good

from this restaurant. The

patron had looked to me like a

cheat, and, what was worse, an incompetent cheat, and I

had seen two unmistakable duns hanging about the back

door. But Boris, seeing himself a

maitre d'hôtel once more,

would not be discouraged.

"We've brought it off-only a fortnight to hold out. What

is a fortnight? Food?

Je m'en f--- . To think that

in only three weeks I shall have my mistress! Will she be

dark or fair, I wonder? I don't mind, so long as she is not

too thin."

Two bad days followed. We had only sixty centimes left,