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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, stand-
ing 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 exact-
ly. 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