By the same author



BURMESE DAYS COMING UP FOR


AIR HOMAGE TO CATALONIA


THE LION AND THE UNICORN


ANIMAL FARM


CRITICAL ESSAYS


NINETEEN EIGHTY-FOUR


DOWN AND OUT IN


PARIS AND LONDON



BY


GEORGE ORWELL




" O scathful harm, condition of poverte ! "


CHAUCER



LONDON


SECKER & WARBURG


1949







Martin Secker & Warburg Ltd. 7 John Street, Bloomsbury, London, W.C.


First published (Gollancz), January


1933 New edition, reset, 1949


MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN by MORRISON


AND GIBB LTD., LONDON AND EDINBURGH




I



THE Rue du Coq d'Or, Paris, seven in the morning.


A succession of furious, choking yells from the street.


Madame Monce, who kept the little hotel opposite mine,


had come out on to the pavement to address a lodger on


the third floor. Her bare feet were stuck into sabots and


her grey hair was streaming down.




Madame Monce: « Salope! Salope!


How many times


have I told you not to squash bugs on the wallpaper? Do


you think you've bought the hotel, eh? Why can't you


throw them out of the window like everyone else?



Putain!



Salope! »




The woman on the third floor: « Vache


! »



Thereupon a whole variegated chorus of yells, as


windows were flung open on every side and half the


street joined in the quarrel. They shut up abruptly ten


minutes later, when a squadron of cavalry rode past and


people stopped shouting to look at them.



I sketch this scene, just to convey something of the


spirit of the Rue du Coq d'Or. Not that quarrels were the


only thing that happened there-but still, we seldom got


through the morning without at least one outburst of


this description. Quarrels, and the desolate cries of


street hawkers, and the shouts of children chasing


orange-peel over the cobbles, and at night loud singing


and the sour reek of the refuse-carts, made up the


atmosphere of the street.



It was a very narrow street-a ravine of tall, leprous


houses, lurching towards one another in queer atti-


tudes, as though they had all been frozen in the act of


collapse. All the houses were hotels and packed to the


tiles with lodgers, mostly Poles, Arabs and Italians. At 5


the foot of the hotels were tiny bistros, where you could be


drunk for the equivalent of a shilling. On Saturday nights


about a third of the male population of the quarter was


drunk. There was fighting over women, and the Arab


navvies who lived in the cheapest hotels used to conduct


mysterious feuds, and fight them out with chairs and


occasionally revolvers. At night the policemen would


only come through the street two together. It was a fairly


rackety place. And yet amid the noise and dirt lived the


usual respectable French shopkeepers, bakers and


laundresses and the like, keeping themselves to


themselves and quietly piling up small fortunes. It'was


quite a representative Paris slum.



My hotel was called the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux. It


was a dark, rickety warren of five storeys, cut up by


wooden partitions into forty rooms. The rooms were


small and inveterately dirty, for there was no maid,


and Madame F., the patronne, had no time to do any


sweeping. The walls were as thin as matchwood, and


to hide the cracks they had been covered with layer


after layer of pink paper, which had come loose and


housed innumerable bugs. Near the ceiling long lines


of bugs marched all day like columns of soldiers,


and at night came down ravenously hungry, so that


one had to get up every few hours and kill them in


hecatombs. Sometimes when the bugs got too bad


one used to burn sulphur and drive them into the


next room; whereupon the lodger next door would


retort by having his room sulphured, and drive the


bugs back. It was a dirty place, but homelike, for


Madame F. and her husband were good sorts. The


rent of the rooms varied between thirty and fifty


francs a week.



The lodgers were a floating population, largely


foreigners, who used to turn up without luggage, stay


a week and then disappear again. They were of every


trade-cobblers, bricklayers, stonemasons, navvies,


students, prostitutes, rag-pickers. Some of them were


fantastically poor. In one of the attics there was a


Bulgarian student who made fancy shoes for the Ameri-


can market. From six to twelve he sat on his bed, making


a dozen pairs of shoes and earning thirty-five francs; the


rest of the day he attended lectures at the Sorbonne. He


was studying for the Church, and books of theology lay


face-down on his leather-strewn floor. In another room


lived a Russian woman and her son, who called himself


an artist. The mother worked sixteen hours a day,


darning socks at twenty-five centimes a sock, while the


son, decently dressed, loafed in the Montparnasse cafés.


One room was let to two different lodgers, one a day


worker and the other a night worker. In another room a


widower shared the same bed with his two grown-up


daughters, both consumptive.



There were eccentric characters in the hotel. The Paris


slums are a gathering-place for eccentric people -people


who have fallen into solitary, half-mad grooves of life and


given up trying to be normal or decent. Poverty frees them


from ordinary standards of behaviour, just as money frees


people from work. Some of the lodgers in our hotel lived


lives that were curious beyond words.



There were the Rougiers, for instance, an old, ragged,


dwarfish couple who plied an extraordinary trade. They


used to sell post cards on the Boulevard St. Michel. The


curious thing was that the post cards were sold in sealed


packets as pornographic ones, but were actually photo-


graphs of chateaux on the Loire; the buyers did not discover


this till too late, and of course never complained. The


Rougiers earned about a hundred francs a week, and by


strict economy managed to be always half


starved and half drunk. The filth of their room was


such that one could smell it on the floor below. Accord-


ing to Madame F., neither of the Rougiers had taken off


their clothes for four years.



Or there was Henri, who worked in the sewers. He


was a tall, melancholy man with curly hair, rather


romantic-looking in his long, sewer-man's boots.


Henri's peculiarity was that he did not speak, except for


the purposes of work, literally for days together. Only a


year before he had been a chauffeur in good employ and


saving money. One day he fell in love, and when the girl


refused him he lost his temper and kicked her. On being


kicked the girl fell desperately in love with Henri, and


for a fortnight they lived together and spent a thousand


francs of Henri's money. Then the girl was unfaithful;


Henri planted a knife in her upper arm and was sent to


prison for six months. As soon as she had been stabbed


the girl fell more in love with Henri than ever, and the


two made up their quarrel and agreed that when Henri


came out of jail he should buy a taxi and they would


marry and settle down. But a fortnight later the girl was


unfaithful again, and when Henri came out she was with


child. Henri did not stab her again. He drew out all his


savings and went on a drinking-bout that ended in


another month's imprisonment; after that he went to


work in the sewers. Nothing would induce Henri to talk.


If you asked him why he worked in the sewers he never


answered, but simply crossed his wrists to signify


handcuffs, and jerked his head southward, towards the


prison. Bad luck seemed to have turned him half-witted


in a single day.



Or there was R., an Englishman, who lived six


months of the year in Putney with his parents and six


months in France. During his time in France he drank


four litres of wine a day, and six litres on Saturdays;


he had once travelled as far as the Azores, because the


wine there is cheaper than anywhere in Europe. He was a


gentle, domesticated creature, never rowdy or


quarrelsome, and never sober. He would lie in bed till


midday, and from then till midnight he was in his corner


of the bistro, quietly and methodically soaking. While he


soaked he talked, in a refined, womanish voice, about


antique furniture. Except myself, R. was the only


Englishman in the quarter.



There were plenty of other people who lived lives just


as eccentric as these: Monsieur Jules, the Roumanian,


who had a glass eye and would not admit it, Furex the


Limousin stonemason, Roucolle the miser -he died before


my time, though-old Laurent the rag-merchant, who used


to copy his signature from a slip of paper he carried in his


pocket. It would be fun to write some of their


biographies, if one had time. I am trying to describe the


people in our quarter, not for the mere curiosity, but


because they are all part of the story. Poverty is what I


am writing about, and I had my first contact with poverty


in this slum. The slum, with its dirt and its queer lives,


was first an object-lesson in poverty, and then the


background of my own experiences. It is for that reason


that I try to give some idea of what life was like there.






II


L I F E in the quarter. Our



bistro, for instance, at the


foot of the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux. A tiny brick-


floored room, half underground, with wine-sodden


tables, and a photograph of a funeral inscribed « Crédit


est mort »; and red-sashed workmen carving sausage


with big jack-knives; and Madame F., a splendid


Auvergnat peasant woman with the face of a strong-


minded cow, drinking Malaga all day " for her


stomach"; and games of dice for apéritifs; and songs


about «



Les Fraises et Les Framboises, » and about


Madelon, who said, "



Comment épouser un soldat, moi qui



aime tout le régiment?


»; and extraordinarily public love-


making. Half the hotel used to meet in the bistro in the


evenings. I wish one could find a pub in London a


quarter as cheery.



One heard queer conversations in the



bistro. As a


sample I give you Charlie, one of the local curiosities,


talking.



Charlie was a youth of family and education who


had run away from home and lived on occasional


remittances. Picture him very pink and young, with


the fresh cheeks and soft brown hair of a nice little


boy, and lips excessively red and wet, like cherries. His


feet are tiny, his arms abnormally short, his hands


dimpled like a baby's. He has a way of dancing and


capering while he talks, as though he were too happy


and too full of life to keep still for an instant. It is


three in the afternoon, and there is no one in the bistro


except Madame F. and one or two men who are out of


work; but it is all the same to Charlie whom he talks


to, so long as he can talk about himself. He declaims


like an orator on a barricade, rolling the words on his


tongue and gesticulating with his short arms. His


small, rather piggy eyes glitter with enthusiasm. He is,


somehow, profoundly disgusting to see.



He is talking of love, his favourite subject.



«



Ah, l'amour, l'amour! Ah, que les femmes m'ont tué!



Alas, messieurs et dames,


women have been my ruin,


beyond all hope my ruin. At twenty-two I am utterly


worn out and finished. But what things I have learned,


what abysses of wisdom have I not plumbed! How


great a thing it is to have acquired the true wisdom, to


have become in the highest sense of the word a


civilised man, to have become



raffiné, vicieux, » etc. etc.



"



Messieurs et dames, I perceive that you are sad. Ah,


mais la vie est belle-you must not be sad. Be more gay, I


beseech you!



"


Fill high ze bowl vid Saurian vine, Ve


vill not sink of semes like zese!





« Ah, que la vie est belle


! Listen,



messieurs et dames, out


of the fullness of my experience I will discourse to you


of love. I will explain to you what is the true meaning


of love-what is the true sensibility, the higher, more


refined pleasure which is known to civilised men alone.


I will tell you of the happiest day of my life. Alas, but I


am past the time when I could know such happiness as


that. It is gone for ever-the very possibility, even the


desire for it, are gone.



"Listen, then. It was two years ago; my brother was


in Paris-he is a lawyer-and my parents had told him to


find me and take me out to dinner. We hate each other,


my brother and I, but we preferred not to disobey my


parents. We dined, and at dinner he grew very drunk


upon three bottles of Bordeaux. I took him back to his


hotel, and on the way I bought a bottle of brandy, and


when we had arrived I made my brother drink a


tumberful of it-I told him it was something to make


him sober. He drank it, and immediately he fell down


like somebody in a fit, dead drunk. I lifted him up and


propped his back against the bed; then I went through


his pockets. I found eleven hundred francs, and with


that I hurried down the stairs, jumped into a taxi, and


escaped. My brother did not know my address -I was


safe.



"Where does a man go when he has money? To the



bordels


, naturally. But you do not suppose that I was


going to waste my time on some vulgar debauchery fit


only for navvies? Confound it, one is a civilised man! I


was fastidious, exigeant, you understand, with a


thousand francs in my pocket. It was midnight before I


found what I was looking for. I had fallen in with a very


smart youth of eighteen, dressed en smoking and with his


hair cut



à l'américaine, and we were talking in a quiet



bistro


away from the boulevards. We understood one


another well, that youth and I. We talked of this and


that, and discussed ways of diverting oneself. Presently


we took a taxi together and were driven away.



"The taxi stopped in a narrow, solitary street with a


single gas-lamp flaring at the end. There were dark


puddles among the stones. Down one side ran the high,


blank wall of a convent. My guide led me to a tall,


ruinous house with shuttered windows, and knocked


several times at the door. Presently there was a sound of


footsteps and a shooting of bolts, and the door opened a


little. A hand came round the edge of it; it was a large,


crooked hand, that held itself palm upwards under our


noses, demanding money.



"My guide put his foot between the door and the step.


'How much do you want?' he said.



" 'A thousand francs,' said a woman's voice. 'Pay up


at once or you don't come in.'



"I put a thousand francs into the hand and gave the


remaining hundred to my guide: he said good night and


left me. I could hear the voice inside counting the notes,


and then a thin old crow of a woman in a black dress


put her nose out and regarded me suspiciously before


letting me in. It was very dark inside: I could see


nothing except a flaring gas jet that illuminated a patch


of plaster wall, throwing everything else into


deeper shadow. There was a smell of rats and dust.


Without speaking, the old woman lighted a candle at the


gas jet, then hobbled in front of me down a stone


passage to the top of a flight of stone steps.



" '



Voilà!' she said; 'go down into the cellar there and


do what you like. I shall see nothing, hear nothing, know


nothing. You are free, you understand-perfectly free.'



"Ha,



messieurs, need I describe to you



forcément, you


know it yourselves-that shiver, half of terror and half of


joy, that goes through one at these moments? I crept


down, feeling my way; I could hear my breathing and the


scraping of my shoes on the stones, otherwise all was


silence. At the bottom of the stairs my hand met an


electric switch. I turned it, and a great electrolier of


twelve redglobes flooded the cellarwith a red light. And


behold, I was not in a cellar, but in a bedroom, a great,


rich, garish bedroom, coloured blood red from top to


bottom. Figure it to yourselves,



messieurs et dames! Red


carpet on the floor, red paper on the walls, red plush on


the chairs, even the ceiling red; everywhere red, burning


into the eyes. It was a heavy, stifling red, as though the


light were shining through bowls of blood. At the far end


stood a huge, square bed, with quilts red like the rest,


and on it a girl was lying, dressed in a frock of red velvet.


At the sight of me she shrank away and tried to hide her


knees under the short dress.



"I had halted by the door. 'Come here, my chicken,' I


called to her.



"She gave a whimper of fright. With a bound I was


beside the bed; she tried to elude me, but I seized her by


the throat-like this, do you see?-tight! She struggled, she


began to cry out for mercy, but I held her fast, forcing


back her head and staring down into her face. She was


twenty years old, perhaps; her face was the


broad, dull face of a stupid child, but it was coated


with paint and powder, and her blue, stupid eyes,


shining in the red light, wore that shocked, distorted


look that one sees nowhere save in the eyes of these


women. She was some peasant girl, doubtless, whom


her parents had sold into slavery.



"Without another word I pulled her off the bed and


threw her on to the floor. And then I fell upon her like


a tiger! Ah, the joy, the incomparable rapture of that


time! There,



messieurs et dames, is what I would expound to


you;



voilà (amour! There is the true love, there is the only


thing in the world worth striving for; there is the thing


beside which all your arts and ideals, all your


philosophies and creeds, all your fine words and high


attitudes, are as pale and profitless as ashes. When


one has experienced love-the true love-what is there in


the world that seems more than a mere ghost of joy?



"More and more savagely I renewed the attack.


Again and again the girl tried to escape; she cried out


for mercy anew, but I laughed at her.



" 'Mercy!' I said, 'do you suppose I have come here


to show mercy? Do you suppose I have paid a


thousand francs for that?' I swear to you, messieurs et


dames, that if it were not for that accursed law that robs


us of our liberty, I would have murdered her at that


moment.



« Ah, how she screamed, with what bitter cries of


agony. But there was no one to hear them; down there


under the streets of Paris we were as secure as at the


heart of a pyramid. Tears streamed down the girl's


face, washing away the powder in long, dirty smears.


Ah, that irrecoverable time! You,



messieurs et dames, you


who have not cultivated the finer sensibilities of love,


for you such pleasure is almost beyond conception.


And I too, now that my youth is gone-ah, youth!-


shall never again see life so beautiful as that. It


is finished.



« Ah yes, it is gone-gone for ever. Ah, the poverty,


the shortness, the disappointment of human joy! For


in reality-car



en réalité, what is the duration of the


supreme moment of love? It is nothing, an instant, a


second perhaps. A second of ecstasy, and after that-


dust, ashes, nothingness.



"And so, just for one instant, I captured the


supreme happiness, the highest and most refined


emotion to which human beings can attain. And in the


same moment it was finished, and I was left-to what?


All my savagery, my passion, were scattered like the


petals of a rose. I was left cold and languid, full. of


vain regrets; in my revulsion I even felt a kind of pity


for the weeping girl on the floor. Is it not nauseous,


that we should be the prey of such mean emotions? I


did not look at the girl again; my sole thought was to


get away. I hastened up the steps of the vault and out


into the street. It was dark and bitterly cold, the


streets were empty, the stones echoed under my heels


with a hollow, lonely ring. All my money was gone, I


had not even the price of a taxi fare. I walked back


alone to my cold, solitary room.



"But there,



messieurs et dames, that is what I promised


to expound to you. That is Love. That was the happiest


day of my life."



He was a curious specimen, Charlie. I describe


him, just to show what diverse characters could be


found flourishing in the Coq d'Or quarter.





III



I


L I V E D in the Coq d'Or quarter for about a year


and a half. One day, in summer, I found that I had just


four hundred and fifty francs left, and beyond this


nothing but thirty-six francs a week, which I earned by giving


English lessons. Hitherto I had not thought about the


future, but I now realised that I must do something at


once. I decided to start looking for a job, and-very


luckily, as it turned out-I took the precaution of paying


two hundred francs for a month's rent in advance. With


the other two hundred and fifty francs, besides the


English lessons, I could live a month, and in a month I


should probably find work. I aimed at becoming a guide


to one of the tourist companies, or perhaps an


interpreter. However, a piece of bad luck prevented this.



One day there turned up at the hotel a young Italian


who called himself a compositor. He was rather an am-


biguous person, for he wore side whiskers, which are


the mark either of an apache or an intellectual, and


nobody was quite certain in which class to put him.


Madame F. did not like the look of him, and made him


pay a week's rent in advance. The Italian paid the rent


and stayed six nights at the hotel. During this time he


managed to prepare some duplicate keys, and on the last


night he robbed a dozen rooms, including mine. Luckily,


he did not find the money that was in my pockets, so I


was not left penniless. I was left with just forty-seven


francs-that is, seven and tenpence.



This put an end to my plans of looking for work. I


had now got to live at the rate of about six francs a day,


and from the start it was too difficult to leave much


thought for anything else. It was now that my experi-


ences of poverty began-for six francs a day, if not actual


poverty, is on the fringe of it. Six francs is a shilling,


and you can live on a shilling a day in Paris if you know


how. But it is a complicated business.



It is altogether curious, your first contact with


poverty. You have thought so much about poverty - it


is the thing you have feared all your life, the thing you


knew would happen to you sooner or later; and it is all so


utterly and prosaically different. You thought it would be


quite simple; it is extraordinarily complicated. You


thought it would be terrible; it is merely squalid and


boring. It is the peculiar



lowness of poverty that you


discover first; the shifts that it puts you to, the


complicated meanness, the crust-wiping.



You discover, for instance, the secrecy attaching to


poverty. At a sudden stroke you have been reduced to an


income of six francs a day. But of course you dare not


admit it-you have got to pretend that you are living


quite as usual. From the start it tangles you in a net of


lies, and even with the lies you can hardly manage it.


You stop sending clothes to the laundry, and the


laundress catches you in the street and asks you why;


you mumble something, and she, thinking you are


sending the clothes elsewhere, is your enemy for life.


The tobacconist keeps asking why you have cut down


your smoking. There are letters you want to answer, and


cannot, because stamps are too expensive. And then


there are your meals-meals are the worst difficulty of


all. Every day at meal-times you go out, ostensibly to a


restaurant, and loaf an hour in the Luxembourg


Gardens, watching the pigeons. Afterwards you smuggle


your food home in your pockets. Your food is bread and


margarine, or bread and wine, and even the nature of the


food is governed by lies. You have to buy rye bread


instead of household bread, because the rye loaves,


though dearer, are round and can be smuggled in your


pockets. This wastes you a franc a day. Sometimes, to


keep up appearances, you have to spend sixty centimes


on a drink, and go correspondingly short of food. Your


linen gets filthy, and you run out of soap and razor-


blades. Your hair wants cutting, and you try to



cut it yourself, with such fearful results that you


have to go the barber after all, and spend the equivalent


of a day's food. All day you are telling lies, and


expensive lies.



You discover the extreme precariousness of your six


francs a day. Mean disasters happen and rob you of


food. You have spent your last eighty centimes on half a


litre of milk, and are boiling it over the spirit lamp.


While it boils a bug runs down your forearm; you give


the bug a flick with your nail, and it falls, plop! straight


into the milk. There is nothing for it but to throw the


milk away and go foodless.



You go to the baker's to buy a pound of bread, and


you wait while the girl cuts a pound for another cus-


tomer. She is clumsy, and cuts more than a pound.


"Pardon, monsieur," she says, "I suppose you don't mind


paying two sous extra?" Bread is a franc a pound, and


you have exactly a franc. When you think that you too


might be asked to pay two sous extra, and would have


to confess that you could not, you bolt in panic. It is


hours before you dare venture into a baker's shop again.



You go to the greengrocer's to spend a franc on a


kilogram of potatoes. But one of the pieces that make up


the franc is a Belgium piece, and the shopman refuses


it. You slink out of the shop, and can never go there


again.



You have strayed into a respectable quarter, and you


see a prosperous friend coming. To avoid him you dodge


into the nearest café. Once in the café you must buy


something, so you spend your last fifty centimes on a


glass of black coffee with a dead fly in it. One could


multiply these disasters by the hundred. They are part


of the process of being hard up.



You discover what it is like to be hungry. With bread


and margarine in your belly, you go out and look


into the shop windows. Everywhere there is food in-


sulting you in huge, wasteful piles; whole dead pigs,


baskets of hot loaves; great yellow blocks of butter,


strings of sausages, mountains of potatoes, vast Gruyère


cheeses like grindstones. A snivelling self-pity comes


over you at the sight of so much food. You plan to grab a


loaf and run, swallowing it before they catch you; and


you refrain, from pure funk.



You discover the boredom which is inseparable from


poverty; the times when you have nothing to do and,


being underfed, can interest yourself in nothing. For half


a day at a time you lie on your bed, feeling like the jeune


squelette in Baudelaire's poem. Only food could rouse


you. You discover that a man who has gone even a week


on bread and margarine is not a man any longer, only a


belly with a few accessory organs.



This-one could describe it further, but it is all in the


same style-is life on six francs a day. Thousands of


people in Paris live it-struggling artists and students,


prostitutes when their luck is out, out-of-work people of


all kinds. It is the suburbs, as it were, of poverty.



I continued in this style for about three weeks. The


forty-seven francs were soon gone, and I had to do what


I could on thirty-six francs a week from the English


lessons. Being inexperienced, I handled the money


badly, and sometimes I was a day without food. When


this happened I used to sell a few of my clothes, smug-


gling them out of the hotel in small packets and taking


them to a second-hand shop in the Rue de la Montagne


St. Geneviève. The shopman was a red-haired Jew, an


extraordinary disagreeable man, who used to fall into


furious rages at the sight of a client. From his manner


One would have supposed that we had done him some


injury by coming to him. « Merde! » he used to shout,


'you here again? What do you think this is? A soup


kitchen?" And he paid incredibly low prices. For a hat


which I had bought for twenty-five shillings and.


scarcely worn he gave five francs; for a good pair of


shoes, five francs; for shirts, a franc each. He always


preferred to exchange rather than buy, and he had a


trick of thrusting some useless article into one's hand


and then pretending that one had accepted it. Once I


saw him take a good overcoat from an old woman, put


two white billiard-balls into her hand, and then push


her rapidly out of the shop before she could protest. It


would have been a pleasure to flatten the Jew's nose, if


only one could have afforded it.



These three weeks were squalid and uncomfortable,


and evidently there was worse coming, for my rent


would be due before long. Nevertheless, things were not


a quarter as bad as I had expected. For, when you are


approaching poverty, you make one discovery which


outweighs some of the others. You discover boredom and


mean complications and the beginnings of hunger, but


you also discover the great redeeming feature of poverty:


the fact that it annihilates the future. Within certain


limits, it is actually true that the less money you have,


the less you worry. When you have a hundred francs in


the world you are liable to the most craven panics. When


you have only three francs you are quite indifferent; for


three francs will feed you till to-morrow, and you cannot


think further than that. You are bored, but you are not


afraid. You think vaguely, "I shall be starving in a day or


two-shocking, isn't it?" And then the mind wanders to


other topics. A bread and margarine diet does, to some


extent, provide its own anodyne.



And there is another feeling that is a great consola-


tion in poverty. I believe everyone who has been hard up


has experienced it. It is a feeling of relief, almost of


pleasure, at knowing yourself at last genuinely down


and out. You have talked so often of going to the dogs -


and well, here are the dogs, and you have reached them,


and you can stand it. It takes off a lot of anxiety.





IV




ONE day my English lessons ceased abruptly. The


weather was getting hot and one of my pupils, feeling


too lazy to go on with his lessons, dismissed me. The


other disappeared from his lodgings without notice,


owing me twelve francs. I was left with only thirty


centimes and no tobacco. For a day and a half I had


nothing to eat or smoke, and then, too hungry to put it


off any longer, I packed my remaining clothes into my


suitcase and took them to the pawnshop. This put an


end to all pretence of being in funds, for I could not take


my clothes out of the hotel without asking Madame F.'s


leave. I remember, however, how surprised she was at


my asking her instead of removing the clothes on the


sly, shooting the moon being a common trick in our


quarter.



It was the first time that I had been in a French


pawnshop. One went through grandiose stone portals


(marked, of course, «



Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité"-they


write that even over the police stations in France) into a


large, bare room like a school classroom, with a counter


and rows of benches. Forty or fifty people were waiting.


One handed one's pledge over the counter and sat down.


Presently, when the clerk had assessed its value he


would call out, « Numéro such and such, will you take


fifty francs?" Sometimes it was only fifteen francs, or


ten, or five-whatever it was, the whole room knew it.


As I came in the clerk called with an air of offence,


«



Numéro 83-here!" and gave a little whistle and a


beckon, as though calling a dog.



Numéro 83 stepped to


the counter; he was an old bearded man, with an over-


coat buttoned up at the neck and frayed trouser-ends.


Without a word the clerk shot the bundle across the


counter-evidently it was worth nothing. It fell to the


ground and came open, displaying four pairs of men's


woollen pants. No one could help laughing. Poor



Numéro


83 gathered up his pants and shambled out, muttering to


himself.



The clothes I was pawning, together with the suitcase,


had cost over twenty pounds, and were in good condition.


I thought they must be worth ten pounds, and a quarter


of this (one expects quarter value at a pawnshop) was


two hundred and fifty or three hundred francs. I waited


without anxiety, expecting two hundred francs at the


worst.



At last the clerk called my number: «



Numéro 97!"



"Yes," I said, standing up.



"Seventy francs?"



Seventy francs for ten pounds' worth of clothes! But it


was no use arguing; I had seen someone else attempt to


argue, and the clerk had instantly refused the pledge. I


took the money and the pawnticket and walked out. I


had now no clothes except what I stood up in-the coat


badly out at the elbow-an overcoat, moderately pawnable,


and one spare shirt. Afterwards, when it was too late, I


learned that it was wiser to go to a pawnshop in the


afternoon. The clerks are French, and, like most French


people, are in a bad temper till they have eaten their


lunch.



When I got home, Madame F. was sweeping the


bistro floor. She came up the steps to meet me. I could


see in her eye that she was uneasy about my rent.



"Well," she said, "what did you get for your clothes?


Not much, eh?"



"Two hundred francs," I said promptly.



"



Tiens!" she said, surprised; "well, that's not bad.


How expensive those English clothes must be!"



The lie saved a lot of trouble, and, strangely enough, it


came true. A few days later I did receive exactly two


hundred francs due to me for a newspaper article, and,


though it hurt to do it, I at once paid every penny of it in


rent. So, though I came near to starving in the following


weeks, I was hardly ever without a roof.



It was now absolutely necessary to find work, and I


remembered a friend of mine, a Russian waiter named


Boris, who might be able to help me. I had first met him


in the public ward of a hospital, where he was being


treated for arthritis in the left leg. He had told me to come


to him if I were ever in difficulties.



I must say something about Boris, for he was a


curious character and my close friend for a long time. He


was a big, soldierly man of about thirty-five, and had


been good-looking, but since his illness he had grown im-


mensely fat from lying in bed. Like most Russian


refugees, he had had an adventurous life. His parents,


killed in the Revolution, had been rich people, and he had


served through the war in the Second Siberian Rifles,


which, according to him, was the best regiment in the


Russian Army. After the war he had first worked in a


brush factory, then as a porter at Les Halles, then had


become a dishwasher, and had finally worked his way up


to be a waiter. When he fell ill he was at the Hôtel Scribe,


and taking a hundred francs a day in tips. His ambition


was to become a maitre d'hdtel, save fifty thousand


francs, and set up a small, select restaurant on the Right


Bank.



Boris always talked of the war as the happiest time


0f his life. War and soldiering were his passion; he


had read innumerable books 0f strategy and military


history, and could tell you all about the theories 0f


Napoleon, Kutuzof, Clausewitz, Moltke and Foch.


Anything to do with soldiers pleased him. His favourite


café was the Closerie des Lilas in Montparnasse,


simply because the statue 0f Marshal Ney stands


outside it. Later 0n, Boris and I sometimes went to the


Rue du Commerce together. If we went by Metro, Boris


always got out at Cambronne station instead 0f


Commerce, though Commerce was nearer; he liked the


association with General Cambronne, who was called


on to surrender at Waterloo, and answered simply,


«



Merde! »



The only things left to Boris by the Revolution were


his medals and some photographs of his old regiment;


he had kept these when everything else went to the


pawnshop. Almost every day he would spread the


photographs out on the bed and talk about them:



"



Voila, mon ami! There you see me at the head 0f my


company. Fine big men, eh? Not like these little rats 0f


Frenchmen. A captain at twenty-not bad, eh? Yes, a


captain in the Second Siberian Rifles; and my father


was a colonel.



«



Ah, mais, mon ami, the ups and downs of life! A


captain in the Russian Army, and then, piff! the Revo-


lution-every penny gone. In 1916 I stayed a week at the


Hotel Édouard Sept; in 1920 I was trying for a job as


night watchman there. I have been night watchman,


cellarman, floor scrubber, dishwasher, porter, lavatory


attendant. I have tipped waiters, and I have been


tipped by waiters.



« Ah, but I have known what it is to live like a


gentleman,



mon ami. I do not say it to boast, but the


other day I was trying to compute how many


mistresses I have had in my life, and I made it out to


be over two hundred. Yes, at least two hundred . . . Ah, well,



ca reviendra


. Victory is to him who fights the longest.


Courage!" etc. etc.



Boris had a queer, changeable nature. He always


wished himself back in the army, but he had also been


a waiter long enough t0 acquire the waiter's outlook.


Though he had never saved more than a few thousand


francs, he took it for granted that in the end he would


be able to set up his own restaurant and grow rich. All


waiters, I afterwards found, talk and think of this; it is


what reconciles them to being waiters. Boris used to


talk interestingly about hotel life:



"Waiting is a gamble," he used to say; "you may die


poor, you may make your fortune in a year. You are


not paid wages, you depend on tips-ten per cent. of the


bill, and a commission from the wine companies on


champagne corks. Sometimes the tips are enormous.


The barman at Maxim's, for instance, makes five


hundred francs a day. More than five hundred, in the


season. . . . I have made two hundred francs a day


myself. It was at a hotel in Biarritz, in the season. The


whole staff, from the manager down to the



plongeurs,


was working twenty-one hours a day. Twenty-one


hours' work and two and a half hours in bed, for a


month on end. Still, it was worth it, at two hundred


francs a day.



"You never know when a stroke of luck is coming.


Once when I was at the Hôtel Royal an American


customer sent for me before dinner and ordered


twentyfour brandy cocktails. I brought them all


together on a tray, in twenty-four glasses. 'Now,



garcon


,' said the customer (he was drunk), 'I'll drink


twelve and you'll drink twelve, and if you can walk to


the door afterwards you get a hundred francs.' I


walked to the door, and he gave me a hundred francs.


And every night for six days he did the same thing; twelve


brandy


cocktails, then a hundred francs. A few months later


I heard he had been extradited by the American


Governmentembezzlement. There is something fine, do


you not think, about these Americans?"



I liked Boris, and we had interesting times together,


playing chess and talking about war and hotels. Boris


used often to suggest that I should become a waiter.


"The life would suit you," he used to say; "when you are


in work, with a hundred francs a day and a nice mistress,


it's not bad. You say you go in for writing. Writing is


bosh. There is only one way to make money at writing,


and that is to marry a publisher's daughter. But you


would make a good waiter if you shaved that moustache


off. You are tall and you speak English those are the


chief things a waiter needs. Wait till I can bend this


accursed leg,



mon ami. And then, if you are ever out of


a job, come to me."



Now that I was short of my rent, and getting hungry,


I remembered Boris's promise, and decided to look him


up at once. I did not hope to become a waiter so easily


as he had promised, but of course I knew how to scrub


dishes, and no doubt he could get me a job in the


kitchen. He had said that dishwashing jobs were to be


had for the asking during the summer. It was a great


relief to remember that I had after all one influential


friend to fall back on.





V



A SHORT time before, Boris had given me an address


in the Rue du Marché des Blancs Manteaux. All he had


said in his letter was that "things were not marching too


badly," and I assumed that he was back


at the Hôtel Scribe, touching his hundred francs a


day. I was full of hope, and wondered why I had been


fool enough not to go to Boris before. I saw myself in a


cosy restaurant, with jolly cooks singing love-songs as


they broke eggs into the pan, and five solid meals a day.


I even squandered two francs-fifty on a packet of


Gaulois Bleu, in anticipation of my wages.



In the morning I walked down to the Rue du Marché


des Blancs Manteaux; with a shock, I found it a slummy


back street as bad as my own. Boris's hotel was the


dirtiest hotel in the street. From its dark doorway there


came out a vile, sour odour, a mixture of slops and


synthetic soup-it was Bouillon Zip, twenty-five


centimes a packet. A misgiving came over me. People


who drink Bouillon Zip are starving, or near it. Could


Boris possibly be earning a hundred francs a day? A


surly patron, sitting in the office, said to me, Yes, the


Russian was at home-in the attic. I went up six flights of


narrow, winding stairs, the Bouillon Zip growing


stronger as one got higher. Boris did not answer when I


knocked at his door, so I opened it and went in.



The room was an attic, ten feet square, lighted only


by a skylight, its sole furniture a narrow iron bedstead, a


chair, and a washhand-stand with one game leg. A long


S-shaped chain of bugs marched slowly across the wall


above the bed. Boris was lying asleep, naked, his large


belly making a mound under the grimy sheet. His chest


was spotted with insect bites. As I came in he woke up,


rubbed his eyes, and groaned deeply.



"Name of Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, "oh, name of


Jesus Christ, my back! Curse it, I believe my back is


broken!"



"What's the matter?" I exclaimed.



"My back is broken, that is all. I have spent the night


on the floor. Oh, name of Jesus Christ! If you knew


what my back feels like!"



"My dear Boris, are you ill?"



"Not ill, only starving-yes, starving to death if this


goes on much longer. Besides sleeping on the floor, I


have lived on two francs a day for weeks past. It is


fearful. You have come at a bad moment, mon ami. »



It did not seem much use to ask whether Boris still


had his job at the Hôtel Scribe. I hurried downstairs


and bought a loaf of bread. Boris threw himself on the


bread and ate half of it, after which he felt better, sat


up in bed, and told me what was the matter with him.


He had failed to get a job after leaving the hospital,


because he was still very lame, and he had spent all


his money and pawned everything, and finally starved


for several days. He had slept a week on the quay


under the Pont d'Austerlitz, among some empty wine


barrels. For the past fortnight he had been living in


this room, together with a Jew, a mechanic. It -


appeared (there was some complicated explanation)


that the Jew owed Boris three hundred francs, and


was repaying this by letting him sleep on the floor and


allowing him two francs a day for food. Two francs


would buy a bowl of coffee and three rolls. The Jew


went to work at seven in the mornings, and after that


Boris would leave his sleepingplace (it was beneath the


skylight, which let in the rain) and get into the bed. He


could not sleep much even there owing to the bugs,


but it rested his back after the floor.



It was a great disappointment, when I had come to


Boris for help, to find him even worse off than myself. I


explained that I had only about sixty francs left and


must get a job immediately. By this time, however,


Boris had eaten the rest of the bread and was feeling


cheerful and talkative. He said carelessly:



"Good heavens, what are you worrying about? Sixty


francs-why, it's a fortune! Please hand me that shoe,


mon ami. I'm going to smash some of those bugs if they


come within reach."



"But do you think there's any chance of getting a



job?"



"Chance? It's a certainty. In fact, I have got some-


thing already. There is a new Russian restaurant which


is to open in a few days in the Rue du Commerce. It is



une chose entendue


that I am to be



maitre d'hôtel. I can


easily get you a job in the kitchen. Five hundred francs


a month and your food-tips, too, if you are lucky."



"But in the meantime? I've got to pay my rent before


long."



"Oh, we shall find something. I have got a few cards


up my sleeve. There are people who owe me money, for


"instance-Paris is full of them. One of them is bound to


pay up before long. Then think of all the women who


have been my mistress! A woman never forgets, you


know-I have only to ask and they will help me. 'Besides,


the Jew tells me he is going to steal some magnetos


from the garage where he works, and he will pay us five


francs a day to clean them before he sells them. That


alone would keep us. Never worry, mon ami. Nothing is


easier to get than money."



"Well, let's go out now and look for a job."



"Presently, mon ami. We shan't starve, don't you fear.


This is only the fortune of war-I've been in a worse hole


scores of times. It's only a question of persisting.


Remember Foch's maxim: '



Attaquez! Attaquez! Attaquez!' "



It was midday before Boris decided to get up. All the


clothes he now had left were one suit, with one shirt,


collar and tie, a pair of shoes almost worn out, and a


pair of socks all holes. He had also an overcoat which


was to be pawned in the last extremity. He had


a suitcase, a wretched twenty-franc carboard thing, but


very important, because the



patron of the hotel believed


that it was full of clothes-without that, he would


probably have turned Boris out of doors. What it


actually contained were the medals and photographs,


various odds and ends, and huge bundles of loveletters.


In spite of all this Boris managed to keep a fairly smart


appearance. He shaved without soap and with a razor-


blade two months old, tied his tie so that the holes did


not show, and carefully stuffed the soles of his shoes


with newspaper. Finally, when he was dressed, he


produced an ink-bottle and inked the skin of his ankles


where it showed through his socks. You would never


have thought, when it was finished, that he had recently


been sleeping under the Seine bridges.



We went to a small café off the Rue de Rivoli, a well-


known rendezvous of hotel managers and employees. At


the back was a, dark, cave-like room where all kinds of


hotel workers were sitting-smart young waiters, others


not so smart and clearly hungry, fat pink cooks, greasy


dishwashers, battered old scrubbing-women. Everyone


had an untouched glass of black coffee in front of him.


The place was, in effect, an employment bureau, and the


money spent on drinks was the patron's commission.


Sometimes a stout, importantlooking man, obviously a


restaurateur, would come in and speak to the barman,


and the barman would call to one of the people at the


back of the café. But he never called to Boris or me, and


we left after two hours, as the etiquette was that you


could only stay two hours for one drink. We learned


afterwards, when it was too late, that the dodge was to


bribe the barman; if you could afford twenty francs he


would generally get you a job.



We went to the Hôtel Scribe and waited an hour on


the pavement, hoping that the manager would come


out, but he never did. Then we dragged ourselves down


to the Rue du Commerce, only to find that the new


restaurant, which was being redecorated, was shut up


and the



patron away. It was now night. We had walked


fourteen kilometres over pavement, and we were so


tired that we had to waste one franc-fifty on going


home by Metro. Walking was agony to Boris with his game


leg,


and his optimism wore thinner and thinner as the day


went on. When he got out of the Metro at the Place


d'Italie he was in despair. He began to say that it was


no use looking for work-there was nothing for it but to


try crime.



"Sooner rob than starve,



mon ami. I have often


planned it. A fat, rich American-some dark corner


down Montparnasse way-a cobblestone in a stocking -


bang! And then go through his pockets and bolt. It is


feasible, do you not think? I would not flinch-I have


been a soldier, remember."



He decided against the plan in the end, because we


were both foreigners and easily recognised.



When we had got back to my room we spent another


one franc-fifty on bread and chocolate. Boris devoured


his share, and at once cheered up like magic; food


seemed to act on his system as rapidly as a cocktail. He


took out a pencil and began making a list of the people


who would probably give us jobs. There were dozens


of them, he said.



"To-morrow we shall find something,



mon ami, I


know it in my bones. The luck always changes. Besides,


we both have brains-a man with brains can't starve.



"What things a man can do with brains! Brains will =-


make money out of anything. I had a friend once, a


Pole, a real man of genius; and what do you think he


used to do? He would buy a gold ring and pawn it for


fifteen francs. Then-you know how carelessly the clerks


fill up the tickets-where the clerk had written ' en or' he


would add '



et diamants' and he would change 'fifteen


francs' to 'fifteen thousand.' Neat, eh? Then, you see,


he could borrow a thousand francs on the security of the


ticket. That is what I mean by brains . . ."



For the rest of the evening Boris was in a hopeful


mood, talking of the times we should have together


when we were waiters together at Nice or Biarritz, with


smart rooms and enough money to set up mistresses. He


was too tired to walk the three kilometres back to his


hotel, and slept the night on the floor of my room, with


his coat rolled round his shoes for a pillow.





VI



WE again failed to find work the next day, and it was


three weeks before the luck changed. My two hundred


francs saved me from trouble about the rent, but


everything else went as badly as possible. Day after day


Boris and I went up and down Paris, drifting at two


miles an hour through the crowds, bored and hungry,


and finding nothing. One day, I remember, we crossed


the Seine eleven times. We loitered for hours outside


service doorways, and when the manager came out we


would go up to him ingratiatingly, cap in hand. We


always got the same answer: they did not want a lame


man, nor a man without experience. Once we were very


nearly engaged. While we spoke to the manager Boris


stood straight upright, not supporting himself with his


stick, and the manager did not see that he was lame.


"Yes," he said, "we want two men in the cellars.


Perhaps you would do. Come inside." Then Boris


moved, the game was up. « Ah, » said the manager,


"you limp.



Malheureusement---


"



We enrolled our names at agencies and answered


advertisements,_ but walking everywhere made us


slow, and we seemed to miss every job by half an


hour. Once we very nearly got a job swabbing out


railway trucks, but at the last moment they rejected us


in favour of Frenchmen. Once we answered an


advertisement calling for hands at a circus. You had to


shift benches and clean up litter, and, during the


performance, stand on two tubs and let a lion jump


through your legs. When we got to the place, an hour


before the time named, we found a queue of fifty men


already waiting. There is some attraction in lions,


evidently.



Once an agency to which I had applied months


earlier sent me a



petit bleu, telling me of an Italian


gentleman who wanted English lessons. The



petit bleu


said "Come at once" and promised twenty francs an


hour. Boris and I were in despair. Here was a splendid


chance, and I could not take it, for it was impossible to


go to the agency with my coat out at the elbow. Then it


occurred to us that I could wear Boris's coat-it did did


not match my trousers, but the trousers were grey and


might pass for flannel at a short distance. The coat was


so much too big for me that I had to wear it unbuttoned


and keep one hand in my pocket. I hurried out, and


wasted seventy-five centimes on a bus fare to get to the


agency. When I got there I found that the Italian had


changed his mind and left Paris.



Once Boris suggested that I should go to Les Halles


and try for a job as a porter. I arrived at half-past four


the morning, when the work was getting into its swing.


Seeing a short, fat man in a bowler hat directing some


porters, I went up to him and asked for work.


Before answering he seized my right hand and felt the palm.



"You are strong, eh?" he said.



"Very strong," I said untruly.



"



Bien. Let me see you lift that crate."



It was a huge wicker basket full of potatoes. I took


hold of it, and found that, so far from lifting it, I could


not even move it. The man in the bowler hat watched


me, then shrugged his shoulders and turned away. I


made off When I had gone some distance I looked


back and saw



four men lifting the basket on to a cart.


It weighed three hundredweight, possibly. The man


had seen that I was no use, and taken this way of


getting rid of me.



Sometimes in his hopeful moments Boris spent


fifty centimes on a stamp and wrote to one of his ex-


mistresses, asking for money. Only one of them ever


replied. It was a woman who, besides having been


his mistress, owed him two hundred francs. When


Boris saw the letter waiting and recognised the


handwriting, he was wild with hope. We seized the


letter and rushed up to Boris's room to read it, like a


child with stolen sweets. Boris read the letter, then


handed it silently to me. It ran:



MY LITTLE CHERISHED WOOLF,-- With what delight did I


open thy charming letter, reminding me of the days of our


perfect love, and of the so dear kisses which I have received


from thy lips. Such memories linger for ever in the heart, like


the perfume of a flower that is dead.


"As to thy request for two hundred francs, alas! it is


impossible. Thou dost not know, my dear one, how I am


desolated to hear of thy embarrassments. But what wouldst


thou? In this life which is so sad, trouble comes to everyone. I


too have had my share. My little sister has been ill (ah, the


poor little one, how she suffered!) and we are obliged to pay I


know not what to the doctor. All our money is gone and we


are passing, I assure thee, very difficult days.


"Courage, my little wolf, always the courage! Remember that


the bad days are not for ever, and the trouble which seems so


terrible will disappear at last.


"Rest assured, my dear one, that I will remember thee always.


And receive the most sincere embraces of her who has never


ceased to love thee, thy




"YVONNE."




This letter disappointed Boris so much that he went


straight to bed and would not look for work again that


day.



My sixty francs lasted about a fortnight. I had


given up the pretence of going out to restaurants, and


we used to eat in my room, one of us sitting on the


bed and the other on the chair. Boris would contribute


his two francs and I three or four francs, and we


would buy bread, potatoes, milk and cheese, and make


soup over my spirit lamp. We had a saucepan and a


coffee-bowl and one spoon; every day there was a


polite squabble as to who should eat out of the


saucepan and who out of the coffee-bowl (the


saucepan held more), and every day, to my secret


anger, Boris gave in first and had the saucepan.


Sometimes we had more bread in the evening,


sometimes not. Our linen was getting filthy, and it


was three weeks since I had had a bath; Boris, so he


said, had not had a bath for months. It was tobacco


that made everything tolerable. We had plenty of


tobacco, for some time before Boris had met a soldier


(the soldiers are given their tobacco free) and bought


twenty or thirty packets at fifty centimes each.



All this was far worse for Boris than for me. The


walking and sleeping on the floor kept his leg and


back in constant pain, and with his vast Russian


appetite he suffered torments of hunger, though he


never seemed to grow thinner. On the whole he was


surprisingly gay, and he had vast capacities for hope.


He used to say seriously that he had a patron saint who


watched over him, and when things were very bad he would


search the gutter for money, saying that the saint often


dropped a two-franc piece there. One day we were waiting


in the Rue Royale; there was a Russian retaurant near by,


and we were going to ask for a job there. Suddenly, Boris


made up his mind to go into the Madeleine and burn a


fifty-centime candle to his patron saint. Then, coming


out, he said that he would be on the safe side, and


solemnly put a match to a fifty-centime stamp, as a


sacrifice to the immortal gods. Perhaps the gods and the


saints did not get on together; at any rate, we missed the


job.



On some mornings Boris collapsed in the most utter


despair. He would lie in bed almost weeping, cursing the


Jew with whom he lived. Of late the Jew had become


restive about paying the daily two francs, and, what was


worse, had begun putting on intolerable airs of


patronage. Boris said that I, as an Englishman, could not


conceive what torture it was to a Russian of family to be


at the mercy of a Jew.



"A Jew,



mon ami, a veritable Jew! And he hasn't even


the decency to be ashamed of it. To think that I, a


captain in the Russian Army-have I ever told you, mon


ami, that I was a captain in the Second Siberian Rifles?


Yes, a captain, and my father was a colonel. And here I


am, eating the bread of a Jew. A Jew ...



"I will tell you what Jews are like. Once, in the early


months of the war, we were on the march, and we had


halted at a village for the night. A horrible old Jew, with


a red beard like Judas Iscariot, came sneaking up to my


billet. I asked him what he wanted. 'Your honour,' he


said, 'I have brought a girl for you, a beautiful young


girl only seventeen. It will only be fifty francs.' 'Thank


you,' I said, 'you can take her away again. I don't want


to catch any diseases.' 'Diseases!'


cried the Jew, mais,



monsieur le capitaine, there's no fear


of that. It's my own daughter!' That is the Jewish


national character for you.



"Have I ever told you,



mon ami, that in the old Russian


Army,it was considered bad form to spit on a Jew? Yes,


we thought a Russian officer's spittle was too precious to


be wasted on Jews . . ." etc. etc.



On these days Boris usually declared himself too ill to


go out and look for work. He would lie till evening in the


greyish, verminous sheets, smoking and reading old


newspapers. Sometimes we played chess. We had no


board, but we wrote down the moves on a piece of paper,


and afterwards we made a board from the side of a


packing-case, and a set of men from buttons, Belgian


coins and the like. Boris, like many Russians, had a


passion for chess. It was a saying of his that the rules of


chess are the same as the rules of love and war, and that


if you can win at one you can win at the others. But he


also said that if you have a chessboard you do not mind


being hungry, which was certainly not true in my case.





VII



MY MONEY oozed away-to eight francs, to four


francs, to one franc, to twenty-five centimes; and twenty-


five centimes is useless, for it will buy nothing except a


newspaper. We went several days on dry bread, and then


I was two and a half days with nothing to eat whatever.


This was an ugly experience. There are people who do


fasting cures of three weeks or more, and they say that


fasting is quite pleasant after the fourth day; I do not


know, never having gone beyond the third day. Probably


it seems different when one is doing it voluntarily and is


not underfed at the start.



The first day, too inert to look for work, I borrowed a


rod and went fishing in the Seine, baiting with blue-


bottles. I hoped to catch enough for a meal, but of course


I did not. The Seine is full of dace, but they grew cunning


during the seige of Paris, and none of


them has been


caught since, except in nets. On the second day I thought


of pawning my overcoat, but it seemed too far to walk to


the pawnshop, and I spent the day in bed, reading the



Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes


. It was all that I felt equal to,


without food. Hunger reduces one to an utterly spineless,


brainless condition, more like the after-effects of


influenza than anything else. It is as though one had been


turned into a jellyfish, or as though all one's blood had


been pumped out and luke-warm water substituted.


Complete inertia is my chief memory of hunger; that, and


being obliged to spit very frequently, and the spittle


being curiously white and flocculent, like cuckoo-spit. I


do not know the reason for this, but everyone who has


gone hungry several days has noticed it.



On the third morning I felt very much better. I


realised that I must do something at once, and I decided


to go and ask Boris to let me share his two francs, at


any rate for a day or two. When I arrived I found Boris


in bed, and furiously angry. As soon as I came in he


burst out, almost choking:



"He has taken it back, the dirty thief! He has taken it


back!"



"Who's taken what?" I said.



"The Jew! Taken my two francs, the dog, the thief! He


robbed me in my sleep!"



It appeared that on the previous night the Jew had


flatly refused to pay the daily two francs. They had


argued and argued, and at last the Jew had consented to


hand over the money; he had done it, Boris said, in


the most offensive manner, making a little speech


about how kind he was, and extorting abject gratitude.


And then in the morning he had stolen the money back


before Boris was awake.



This was a blow. I was horribly disappointed, for I


had allowed my belly to expect food, a great mistake


when one is hungry. However, rather to my surprise,


Boris was far from despairing. He sat up in bed,


lighted his pipe and reviewed the situation.



"Now listen,



mon-ami, this is a tight corner. We have


only twenty-five centimes between us, and I don't


suppose the Jew will ever pay my two francs again. In


any case his behaviour is becoming intolerable. Will


you believe it, the other night he had the indecency to


bring a woman in here, while I was there on the floor.


The low animal! And I have a worse thing to tell you.


The Jew intends clearing out of here. He owes a week's


rent, and his idea is to avoid paying that and give me the


slip at the same time. If the Jew shoots the moon I shall


be left without a roof, and the



patron will will take my


suitcase in lieu of rent, curse him! We have got to make


a vigorous move."



"All right. But what can we do? It seems to me that


the only thing is to pawn our overcoats and get some


food."



"We'll do that, of course, but I must get my posses-


sions out of this house first. To think of my photographs


being seized! Well, my plan is ready. I'm going to


forestall the Jew and shoot the moon myself. F-----



le



camp


-retreat, you understand. I think that is the correct


move, eh?"



"But, my dear Boris, how can you, in daytime? You're


bound to be caught."



« Ah well, it will need strategy, of course. Our



patron


is on the watch for people slipping out without paying


their rent; he's been had that way before. He and his


wife take it in turns all day to sit in the office-what


misers, these Frenchmen! But I have thought of a way


to do it, if you will help."



I did not feel in a very helpful mood, but I asked


Boris what his plan was. He explained it carefully.



"Now listen. We must start by pawning our overcoats.


First go back to your room and fetch your overcoat, then


come back here and fetch mine, and smuggle it out under


cover of yours. Take them to the pawnshop in the Rue


des Francs Bourgeois. You ought to get twenty francs


for the two, with luck. Then go down to the Seine bank


and fill your pockets with stones, and bring them back


and put them in my suitcase. You see the idea? I shall


wrap as many of my things as I can carry in a


newspaper, and go down and ask the patron the way to


the nearest laundry. I shall be very brazen and casual,


you understand, and of course the patron will think the


bundle is nothing but dirty linen. Or, if he does suspect


anything, he will do what he always does, the mean


sneak; he will go up to my room and feel the weight of


my suitcase. And when he feels the weight of stones he


will think it is still full. Strategy, eh? Then afterwards I


can come back and carry my other things out in my


pockets."



"But what about the suitcase?"



"Oh, that? We shall have to abandon it. The miser-


able thing only cost about twenty francs. Besides, one


always abandons something in a retreat. Look at


Napoleon at the Beresina! He abandoned his whole


army."



Boris was so pleased with this scheme (he called it



une



ruse de guerre


) that he almost forgot being hungry. Its


main weakness-that he would have nowhere to sleep


after shooting the moon-he ignored.



At first the



ruse de guerre worked well. I went home


and fetched my overcoat (that made already nine kilo-


metres, on an empty belly) and smuggled Boris's coat


out successfully. Then a hitch occured. The receiver at


the pawnshop, a nasty, sour-faced interfering, little


man-a typical French official-refused the coats on the


ground that they were not wrapped up in anything. He


said that they must be put either in a valise or a


carboard box. This spoiled everything, for we had no


box of any kind, and with only twenty-five centimes


between us we could not buy one.



I went back and told Boris the bad news. "



Merde!" he


said, "that makes it awkward. Well, no matter, there is


always a way. We'll put the overcoats in my suitcase."



"But how are we to get the suitcase past the



patron?


He's sitting almost in the door of the office. It's


impossible!"



"How easily you despair,



mon ami! Where is that


English obstinacy that I have read of? Courage! We'll


manage it."



Boris thought for a little while, and then produced


another cunning plan. The essential difficulty was to


hold the



patron's attention for perhaps five seconds,


while we could slip past with the suitcase. But, as it


happened, the



patron had just one weak spot-that he was


interested in



Le Sport, and was ready to talk if you


approached him on this subject. Boris read an article


about bicycle races in an old copy of the



Petit Parisien,


and then, when he had reconnoitred the stairs, went


down and managed to set the



patron talking. Meanwhile,


I waited at the foot of the stairs, with the overcoats


under one arm and the suitcase under the other. Boris


was to give a cough when he thought the moment


favourable. I waited trembling, for at any moment the




patron's


wife might come out of the door opposite the


office, and then the game was up. However, presently


Boris coughed. I sneaked rapidly past the office and out


into the street, rejoicing that my shoes did not creak. The


plan might have failed if Boris had been thinner, for his


big shoulders blocked the doorway of the office. His nerve


was splendid, too; he went on laughing and talking in the


most casual way, and so loud that he quite covered any


noise I made. When I was well away he came and joined


me round the corner, and we bolted.



And then, after all our trouble, the receiver at the


pawnshop again refused the overcoats. He told me (one


could see his French soul revelling in the pedantry of it)


that I had not sufficient papers of identification; my



carte



d'identité


was not enough, and I must show a passport or


addressed envelopes. Boris had addressed envelopes by


the score, but his



carte d'identité was out of order (he


never renewed it, so as to avoid the tax), so we could not


pawn the overcoats in his name. All we could do was to


trudge up to my room, get the necessary papers, and


take the coats to the pawnshop in the Boulevard Port


Royal.



I left Boris at my room and went down to the pawn-


shop. When I got there I found that it was shut and


would not open till four in the afternoon. It was now


about half-past one, and I had walked twelve kilometres


and had no food for sixty hours. Fate seemed to be


playing a series of extraordinarily unamusing jokes.



Then the luck changed as though by a miracle. I was


walking home through the Rue Broca when suddenly,


glittering on the cobbles, I saw a five-sou piece. I


pounced on it, hurried home, got our other five-sou piece


and bought a pound of potatoes. There was only enough


alcohol in the stove to parboil them, and we


had no salt, but we wolfed them, skins and all. After


that we felt like new men, and sat playing chess till the


pawnshop opened.



At four o'clock I went back to the pawnshop. I was


not hopeful, for if I had only got seventy francs before,


what could I expect for two shabby overcoats in a


cardboard suitcase? Boris had said twenty francs, but I


thought it would be ten francs, or even five. Worse yet, I


might be refused altogether, like poor



Numéro 83 on the


previous occasion. I sat on the front bench, so as not to


see people laughing when the clerk said five francs.



At last the clerk called my number: «



Numéro 117 !"



"Yes," I said, standing up.



"Fifty francs?"



It was almost as great a shock as the seventy francs


had been the time before. I believe now that the clerk


had mixed my number up with someone else's, for one


could not have sold the coats outright for fifty francs. I


hurried home and walked into my room with my hands


behind my back, saying nothing. Boris was playing with


the chessboard. He looked up eagerly.



"What did you get?" he exclaimed. "What, not twenty


francs? Surely you got ten francs, anyway?



Nom de Dieu,


five francs-that is a bit too thick.



Mon ami, don't say it


was five francs. If you say it was five francs I shall really


begin to think of suicide."



I threw the fifty-franc note on to the table. Boris


turned white as chalk, and then, springing up, seized my


hand and gave it a grip that almost broke the bones. We


ran out, bought bread and wine, a piece of meat and


alcohol for the stove, and gorged.



After eating, Boris became more optimistic than I had


ever known him. "What did I tell you?" he said. "The


fortune of war! This morning with five sous, and


now look at us. I have always said it, there is nothing


easier to get than money. And that reminds me, I have a


friend in the Rue Fondary whom we might go and see.


He has cheated me of four thousand francs, the thief. He


is the greatest thief alive when he is sober, but it is a


curious thing, he is quite honest when he is drunk. I


should think he would be drunk by six in the evening.


Let's go and find him. Very likely he will pay up a


hundred on account.



Merde! He might pay two hundred.



Allons y!"




We went to the Rue Fondary and found the man, and


he was drunk, but we did not get our hundred francs. As


soon as he and Boris met there was a terrible altercation


on the pavement. The other man declared that he did not


owe Boris a penny, but that on the contrary Boris owed



him


four thousand francs, and both of them kept


appealing to me for my opinion. I never understood the


rights of the matter. The two argued and argued, first in


the street, then in a bistro, then in a



prix fixe restaurant


where we went for dinner, then in another



bistro.


Finally, having called one another thieves for two hours,


they went off together on a drinking bout that finished


up the last sou of Boris's money.



Boris slept the night at the house of a cobbler,


another Russian refugee, in the Commerce quarter.


Meanwhile, I had eight francs left, and plenty of


cigarettes, and was stuffed to the eyes with food and


drink. It was a marvellous change for the better after two


bad days.




VIII



WE had now twenty-eight francs in hand, and could


start looking for work once more. Boris was still


sleeping, on some mysterious terms, at the house of the


cobbler, and he had managed to borrow another twenty


francs from a Russian friend. He had friends, mostly


exofficers like himself, here and there all over Paris.


Some were waiters or dishwashers, some drove taxis, a


few lived on women, some had managed to bring


money away from Russia and owned garages or


dancing-halls. In general, the Russian refugees in Paris


are hard-working people, and have put up with their


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


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,


and we spent it on half a pound of bread, with a piece of


garlic to rub it with. The point of rubbing garlic on bread is


that the taste lingers and gives one the illusion of having


fed recently. We sat most of that day in the Jardin des


Plantes. Boris had shots with stones at the tame pigeons,


but always missed them, and after that we wrote dinner


menus on the backs of envelopes. We were too hungry even


to try and think of anything except food. I remember the


dinner Boris finally selected for himself. It was: a dozen


oysters, bortch soup (the red, sweet, beetroot soup with


cream on top), crayfishes, a young chicken en casserole, beef


with stewed plums, new potatoes, a salad, suet pudding


and Roquefort cheese, with a litre of Burgundy and some


old brandy. Boris had international tastes in food. Later


on, when we were prosperous, I occasionally saw him eat


meals almost as large without difficulty.



When our money came to an end I stopped looking for


work, and was another day without food. I did not believe


that the Auberge de Jehan Cottard was really going to


open, and I could see no other prospect, but I was too lazy


to do anything but lie in bed. Then the luck changed


abruptly. At night, at about ten o'clock,


I heard an eager shout from the street. I got up and


went to the window. Boris was there, waving his stick


and beaming. Before speaking he dragged a bent loaf


from his pocket and threw it up to me.



«



Mon ami, mon cher ami, we're saved! What do you


think?"



"Surely you haven't got a job!"



"At the Hôtel X., near the Place de la Concorde--five


hundred francs a month, and food. I have been working


there to-day. Name of Jesus Christ, how I have eaten!"



After ten or twelve hours' work, and with his game


leg, his first thought had been to walk three kilometres


to my hotel and tell me the good news! What was more,


he told me to meet him in the Tuileries the next day


during his afternoon interval, in case he should be able


to steal some food for me. At the appointed time I met


Boris on a public bench. He undid his waistcoat and


produced a large, crushed, newspaper packet; in it were


some minced veal, a wedge of Camembert cheese,


bread and an éclair, all jumbled together.



"



Voila!" said Boris, "that's all I could smuggle out


for you. The doorkeeper is a cunning swine."



It is disagreeable to eat out of a newspaper on a


public seat, especially in the Tuileries, which are


generally full of pretty girls, but I was too hungry to


care. While I ate, Boris explained that he was working in


the cafeterie of the hotel-that is, in English, the


stillroom. It appeared that the cafeterie was the very


lowest post in the hotel, and a dreadful come-down for


a waiter, but it would do until the Auberge de Jehan


Cottard opened. Meanwhile I was to meet Boris every


day in the Tuileries, and he would smuggle out as much


food as he dared. For three days we continued with


this arrangement, and I lived entirely on the stolen


food. Then all our troubles came to an end, for one of


the plongeurs left the Hôtel X., and on Boris's recom-


mendation I was given a job there myself.




X



THE Hôtel X. was a vast, grandiose place with a classical


façade, and at one side a little, dark doorway like a rat-


hole, which was the service entrance. I arrived at a


quarter to seven in the morning. A stream of men with


greasy trousers were hurrying in and being checked by a


doorkeeper who sat in a tiny office. I waited, and


presently the



chef du personnel, a sort of assistant manager,


arrived and began to question me. He was an Italian,


with a round, pale face, haggard from overwork. He


asked whether I was an experienced dishwasher, and I


said that I was; he glanced at my hands and saw that I


was lying, but on hearing that I was an Englishman he


changed his tone and engaged me.



"We have been looking for someone to practise our


English on," he said. "Our clients are all Americans, and


the only English we know is ---" He repeated something


that little boys write on the walls in London. "You may

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