No More Learning

’

‘But what about the suitcase? ’

‘Oh, that? We shall have to abandon it. The miserable 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 kilometres, on an empty belly) and smuggled Boris’s coat out
successfully. Then a hitch occurred. 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
cardboard 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 comer, 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’lDENTITE was not enough, and I must
show a passport or addressed envelopes. Boris had addressed envelopes by the score, but
his CARTE D’lDENTITE 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 pawnshop. 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 NUMERO 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: ‘NUMERO 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.


CHAPTER VIII

We had now twenty-eight francs in hand, and could start looking for work once more.
Boris was still sleeping, on some mysterious tenns, at the house of the cobbler, and he
had managed to borrow another twenty francs from a Russian friend. He had friends,
mostly ex-officers 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 Bolsheviks. 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 correspondents for a Moscow paper, and
they want some articles on English politics. If we got 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 afternoon
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 cafes. 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 password 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 expected. 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 of which I did not understand a word. The Russians 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
Alexandrovitch’, 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 organization.
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 connexion 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 tomorrow. 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 sacrificial ecstasy he rushed
into the nearest tobacconist’s and spent fifty centimes on a cigar. He came out thumping
his stick on the pavement and beaming.

‘At last! At last! Now, MON AMI, out 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 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 vanished! 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
extracting 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.


CHAPTER 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 Hotel 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, double-breasted 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 dish-
washer.

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 channing! I need not ask, then,
whether you are a golfer? ’

‘MAIS CERTAINEMENT,’ I said, seeing that this was expected 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 business. 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’ HOTEL
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 today,’ 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 today, 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 bathroom. 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 ’HOTEL once more, would not be discouraged.

‘We’ve brought it off — only a fortnight to hold out. What is a fortnight? 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 Hotel X, near the Place de la Concorde — five hundred francs a month, and food. I
have been working there today. 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 Gamembert cheese, bread and an eclair, 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 Gottard
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 Hotel X, and on Boris’s recommendation I was given a job there
myself.



CHAPTER X


The Hotel X was a vast, grandiose place with a classical facade, 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 be useful. Come downstairs. ’

He led me down a winding staircase into a narrow passage, deep underground, and so
low that I had to stoop in places. It was stiflingly hot and very dark, with only dim,
yellow bulbs several yards apart. There seemed to be miles of dark labyrinthine
passages — actually, I suppose, a few hundred yards in all — that reminded one queerly of
the lower decks of a liner; there were the same heat and cramped space and warm reek of
food, and a humming, whirring noise (it came from the kitchen furnaces) just like the
whir of engines. We passed doorways which let out sometimes a shouting of oaths,
sometimes the red glare of a fire, once a shuddering draught from an ice chamber. As we
went along, something struck me violently in the back. It was a hundred-pound block of
ice, carried by a blue-aproned porter. After him came a boy with a great slab of veal on
his shoulder, his cheek pressed into the damp, spongy flesh. They shoved me aside with a
cry of ‘SAUVE-TOI, IDIOT! ’ and rushed on. On the wall, under one of the lights,
someone had written in a very neat hand: ‘Sooner will you find a cloudless sky in winter,
than a woman at the Hotel X who has her maidenhead. ’ It seemed a queer sort of place.

One of the passages branched off into a laundry, where an old, skull-faced woman gave
me a blue apron and a pile of dishcloths. Then the CHEF DU PERSONNEL took me to a
tiny underground den — a cellar below a cellar, as it were — where there were a sink and
some gas-ovens. It was too low for me to stand quite upright, and the temperature was
perhaps 110 degrees Fahrenheit. The CHEF DU PERSONNEL explained that my job



was to fetch meals for the higher hotel employees, who fed in a small dining-room above,
clean their room and wash their crockery. When he had gone, a waiter, another Italian,
thrust a fierce, fuzzy head into the doorway and looked down at me.

‘English, eh? ’ he said. ‘Well, I’m in charge here. If you work well’ — he made the motion
of up-ending a bottle and sucked noisily. ‘If you don’t’ — he gave the doorpost several
vigorous kicks. ‘To me, twisting your neck would be no more than spitting on the floor.
And if there’s any trouble, they’ll believe me, not you. So be careful. ’

After this I set to work rather hurriedly. Except for about an hour, I was at work from
seven in the morning till a quarter past nine at night; first at washing crockery, then at
scrubbing the tables and floors of the employees’ dining-room, then at polishing glasses
and knives, then at fetching meals, then at washing crockery again, then at fetching more
meals and washing more crockery. It was easy work, and I got on well with it except
when I went to the kitchen to fetch meals. The kitchen was like nothing I had ever seen or
imagined — a stifling, low-ceilinged inferno of a cellar, red-lit from the fires, and
deafening with oaths and the clanging of pots and pans. It was so hot that all the metal-
work except the stoves had to be covered with cloth. In the middle were furnaces, where
twelve cooks skipped to and fro, their faces dripping sweat in spite of their white caps.
Round that were counters where a mob of waiters and PLONGEURS clamoured with
trays. Scullions, naked to the waist, were stoking the fires and scouring huge copper
saucepans with sand. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry and a rage. The head cook, a fine,
scarlet man with big moustachios, stood in the middle booming continuously, ‘CA
MARCHE DEUX AUFS BROUILLES! CA MARCHE UN CHATEAUBRIAND AUX
POMMES SAUTEES! ’ except when he broke off to curse at a PLONGEUR. There were
three counters, and the first time I went to the kitchen I took my tray unknowingly to the
wrong one. The head cook walked up to me, twisted his moustaches, and looked me up
and down. Then he beckoned to the breakfast cook and pointed at me.

‘Do you see THAT? That is the type of PLONGEUR they send us nowadays. Where do
you come from, idiot? From Charenton, I suppose? ’ (There is a large lunatic asylum at
Charenton. )


‘From England,’ I said.



‘I might have known it. Well, MAN CHER MONSIEUR L’ANGLAIS, may I inform you
that you are the son of a whore? And now — the camp to the other counter, where you
belong. ’

I got this kind of reception every time I went to the kitchen, for I always made some
mistake; I was expected to know the work, and was cursed accordingly. From curiosity I
counted the number of times I was called MAQUEREAU during the day, and it was
thirty-nine.

At half past four the Italian told me that I could stop working, but that it was not worth
going out, as we began at five. I went to the lavatory for a smoke; smoking was strictly
forbidden, and Boris had warned me that the lavatory was the only safe place. After that I
worked again till a quarter past nine, when the waiter put his head into the doorway and
told me to leave the rest of the crockery. To my astonishment, after calling me pig,
mackerel, etc. , all day, he had suddenly grown quite friendly. I realized that the curses I
had met with were only a kind of probation.