---
title: "Down and Out in Paris and London"
author: "George Orwell"
languages: [en]
shelf: "Literature"
section: 8 of 38
url: https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-down-and-out-fp20180314/8/
cite: "George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London, section 8. Scriptura (scriptura.si), https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-down-and-out-fp20180314/8/"
---

# Down and Out in Paris and London

*George Orwell*

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> Title: Down and Out in Paris and London
Date of first publication: 1933
Author: George Orwell (1903-1950)
Date first posted: Mar. 14, 2018
Date last updated: Mar. 14, 2018
Faded Page eBook #20180314

> This eBook was produced by: Delphine Lettau, Howard Ross
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

> GEORGE ORWELL

> _Down and Out_
    _in Paris and London_

> O scathful harm, condicion of poverte!
       CHAUCER

> PENGUIN BOOKS

> First published by Victor Gollancz 1933

> Copyright 1933 by Eric Blair

> [The end of _Down and Out in Paris and London_ by George Orwell]

## 8. Chapter VIII

Source: https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-down-and-out-fp20180314/8/ · cite a paragraph as https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-down-and-out-fp20180314/8/#p-N

[¶0] 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 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.

[¶1] '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?'

[¶2] 'The so-and-so, sir,' the waiter would answer.

[¶3] '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.'

[¶4] 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.

[¶5] 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:

[¶6] 'Tell me, _mon ami_, have you any political opinions?'

[¶7] 'No,' I said.

[¶8] '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?'

[¶9] 'No, of course not.'

[¶10] '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.'

[¶11] 'But what can they do for us? In any case they won't help me, as I'm not
a Russian.'

[¶12] '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 go
to them at once they may commission you to write the articles.'

[¶13] 'Me? But I don't know anything about politics.'

[¶14] '_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.'

[¶15] 'But the _Daily Mail_ is a Conservative paper. They loathe the
Communists.'

[¶16] '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.'

[¶17] I did not at all 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 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.

[¶18] 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 onto 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.

[¶19] '_Mot d'ordre!_' he said sharply when I did not answer.

[¶20] I stopped, startled. I had not expected passwords.

[¶21] '_Mot d'ordre!_' repeated the Russian.

[¶22] 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.

[¶23] 'This is very careless!' he exclaimed fussily. 'Why have you come here
without a parcel of washing?'

[¶24] 'Washing?'

[¶25] '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.'

[¶26] 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.

[¶27] 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 connection on the
Continent.) Oh, of course, again. Both men nodded gravely. The unshaven
one said:

[¶28] '_Évidemment_, 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.'

[¶29] 'Certainly.'

[¶30] '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.'

[¶31] We went downstairs, looked carefully out of the laundry to see that
there was no one 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.

[¶32] '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!'

[¶33] 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.

[¶34] 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.

[¶35] 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.