The Mandarins

‘There you are! Did you slip by them?’ Anne asked.

‘They look safe and sound to me,’ Julien said.

‘We were just attacked by a mob of reporters,’ Dubreuilh explained.

‘Armed with cameras,’ Anne added.

‘Dubreuilh was wonderful,’ Julien exclaimed, stammering with enthusiasm. ‘He said … Well, I forget exactly what he said, but anyhow it was damned well put. A couple of questions more, and he’d have sailed right into them.’

They were all speaking at once, except for Scriassine, who was smiling and wearing a slightly superior look.

‘I really did think Robert was going to start swinging,’ Anne said.

‘He said: “We’re not a bunch of trained monkeys,”’ Julien quoted, beaming broadly.

‘I’ve always considered my face my own personal property,’ Dubreuilh remarked with dignity.

‘The trouble is,’ Anne said, ‘that for people like you nudity begins with the face. Just showing your nose and eyes is exhibitionism.’

‘They don’t take pictures of exhibitionists,’ Dubreuilh replied.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Julien.

‘Drink up,’ Henri said, handing Paula a glass of vodka. ‘Drink up; we’re way behind.’ He emptied his glass, and asked, ‘But how did they know you were here?’

‘Yes,’ Julien said, looking at the others in surprise. ‘How did they know?’

‘I imagine the maître d’hôtel telephoned,’ Scriassine said.

‘But he doesn’t know us,’ Anne said.

‘He knows me,’ Scriassine said. He bit his lower lip, looking like a woman caught in the act. ‘I wanted him to give you the kind of attention you deserve, so I told him who you were.’

‘Well, it looks as if you succeeded,’ Henri said. Scriassine’s childish vanity never failed to astonish him.

Dubreuilh burst out laughing. ‘So it was he who betrayed us! Now I’ve heard everything!’ He turned abruptly towards Henri. ‘Well, what about that trip? Instead of playing, it would seem as if you spent your entire time attending conferences and conducting investigations.’

‘Oh, I managed to get in a lot of sightseeing, too,’ Henri said.

‘Your articles make one want to do one’s sightseeing somewhere else. It’s a sad country!’

‘It was sad, but it was beautiful too,’ Henri said cheerfully. ‘It’s primarily sad for the Portuguese.’

‘I don’t know whether you do it on purpose,’ Dubreuilh said, ‘but when you say that the sea is blue, blue somehow becomes a sinister colour.’

‘And at times it was. But not always,’ Henri smiled. ‘You know how it is when you write.’

‘Yes,’ said Julien, ‘you have to lie to avoid telling the truth.’

‘Anyhow, I’m happy to be back,’ Henri said.

‘But you didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to see your friends again.’

‘You’re wrong; I was,’ Henri replied. ‘Every morning I’ve been telling myself that I’d drop over to see you. And then, all of a sudden it was after midnight.’

‘Well, keep a sharper eye on your watch tomorrow,’ Dubreuilh said grumpily. ‘There’s a pack of things I have to bring you up to date on.’ He smiled. ‘I think we’re getting off to a good start.’

‘You’re beginning to recruit? Has Samazelle decided to go along?’ Henri asked.

‘He doesn’t agree on all points, but I’m sure we’ll be able to compromise,’ Dubreuilh answered.

‘No serious talk tonight!’ Scriassine said, motioning to the monocled maître d’hôtel. ‘Two bottles of Mumm’s, brut.’

‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ Henri asked.

‘Yes. Strict orders!’ Scriassine followed the maître d’hôtel with his eyes. ‘He’s really come down a notch or two since ’39. Used to be a colonel.’

‘Do you come to this joint often?’ Henri asked.

‘Whenever I feel like breaking my heart, I come here and listen to the music.’

‘But there are so many less expensive ways of doing it,’ Julien said. ‘Besides, all hearts were broken long ago,’ he concluded vaguely.

‘Well, my heart breaks only to jazz,’ Henri said. ‘All your gypsies do to me is ruin my feet.’

‘Oh!’ Anne exclaimed.

‘Jazz,’ Scriassine said musingly. ‘I wrote several definitive pages on jazz in The Son of Abel.’

‘Do you really believe it’s possible to write something definitive?’ Paula said haughtily.

‘I won’t discuss it; you’ll be reading the book soon,’ Scriassine said. ‘The French edition will be out any day now.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Five thousand copies! It’s ridiculous! They ought to make exceptions for worthwhile books. How many did they allow you?’

‘The same. Five thousand,’ Henri replied.

‘Absurd! After all, what you’ve written is the book on the Occupation. A book like that should have a printing of at least a hundred thousand copies.’

‘Fight it out with the Minister of Information,’ Henri said. Scriassine’s overbearing enthusiasm irritated him. Among friends, one avoids speaking of one’s books; it embarrasses everyone and amuses no one.

‘We’re bringing out a magazine next month,’ Dubreuilh said. ‘Well, let me tell you, getting paper was one hell of a job!’

‘That’s because the Minister doesn’t know his business,’ Scriassine said. ‘Paper? I’ll find him all he wants!’

Once he began attacking a technical problem in his didactic voice, Scriassine was inexhaustible. While he was complacently flooding France with paper, Anne said quietly to Henri, ‘You know, I don’t think there’s been a book in the last twenty years that’s affected me as much as yours. It’s a book … Well, exactly the kind of book you’d want to read after these last four years. Some parts moved me so much that I had to put it aside and take a walk in the street to calm myself down.’ Suddenly she blushed. ‘You feel idiotic when you say things like that, but it’s just as idiotic not to say them. Anyhow, it can’t do any harm.’

‘In fact, it even gives pleasure,’ Henri said.

‘You moved a great many people,’ Anne continued. ‘All those who don’t want to forget,’ she added with passion.

He smiled at her gratefully. Tonight she was wearing a Scotch-plaid dress which made her look years younger, and she had applied her make-up with care. In one way, she looked much younger than Nadine. Nadine never blushed.

Scriassine raised his voice. ‘That magazine could be a very powerful instrument of culture and action, but only on condition that it expresses more than the opinions of a tight little coterie. I maintain that a man like Louis Volange ought to be a member of your team.’

‘Out of the question,’ Dubreuilh stated flatly.

‘An intellectual’s lapse isn’t that serious,’ Scriassine said. ‘Name me the intellectual who has never made a mistake.’ Gravely he added, ‘Should a man be made to bear the weight of his mistakes all his life?’

‘To have been a Party member in Russia in 1930 wasn’t a mistake,’ Dubreuilh said.

‘If you have no right to make a mistake, it was a crime.’

‘It’s not a question of right,’ Dubreuilh replied.

‘How dare you set yourselves up as judges?’ Scriassine said, without listening to him. ‘Do you know Volange’s reasons, his explanations? Are you sure that all the people you accept on your team are better men than he?’

‘We don’t judge,’ Henri said. ‘We choose sides. There’s a big difference.’

Volange had been clever enough not to compromise himself too seriously, but Henri had sworn that he would never shake hands with him again. When he read the articles Louis wrote in the Free French Zone, he hadn’t been the least bit surprised by what they said. From the moment they left college, their friendship had gradually become an almost open enmity.

With a blasé air, Scriassine shrugged his shoulders and motioned to the maître d’hôtel. ‘Another bottle!’ Again, he stealthily studied the old émigré. ‘A striking head, isn’t it? The bags under the eyes, the droop of the mouth, all the symptoms of decay. Before the war you could still find a trace of arrogance on his face. But the weakness, the dissoluteness of their caste gnaws at them. And their treachery …’ He stared in fascination at the man.

‘Scriassine’s serf!’ Henri thought. He, too, had fled his country, and there they called him a traitor. That probably was the reason for his immense vanity: since he had no homeland, no one to stand up for him but himself, he needed always to reassure himself that somewhere in the world his name meant something.

‘Anne!’ Paula exclaimed. ‘How horrible!’

Anne was emptying her glass of vodka into her champagne glass. ‘It livens it up,’ she explained. ‘Why don’t you try it? It’s good.’

Paula shook her head.

‘Why aren’t you drinking?’ Anne asked. ‘Things are gayer when you drink.’

‘Drinking makes me drunk,’ Paula answered.

Julien began to laugh. ‘You make me think of that girl – a charming young thing I met on the Rue Montparnasse in front of a little hotel – who said to me, “As far as I’m concerned, living kills me.”’

‘She didn’t say that,’ said Anne.

‘She could have said it.’

‘Anyhow, she was right,’ Anne said in a drunk’s sententious voice. ‘To live is to die a little.’

‘For God’s sake, shut up!’ Scriassine half shouted. ‘If you don’t want to listen, at least let me listen!’ The orchestra had begun an enthusiastic attack on Dark Eyes.

‘Let him break his heart,’ Anne said.

‘In the breaking surf a broken heart …’ Julien murmured.

‘Will you please shut up!’

Everyone fell silent. Scriassine’s eyes were fixed on the violinist’s dancing fingers; a dazed look on his face, he was listening to a memory of time long past. He thought it manful to impose his whims on others, but they gave in to him as they would to a neurotic woman. Their very docility should have made him suspicious, as it did. Henri smiled as he watched Dubreuilh tapping his fingers on the table; his courtesy seemed infinite – if you didn’t put it too long to the test. You then learned soon enough that it had its limits. Henri felt like having a quiet talk with him, but he was not impatient. He didn’t care for champagne, or gypsy music, or all this false luxury; nevertheless, simply to be sitting in a public place at two o’clock in the morning was cause for celebration. ‘We’re home again,’ he said to himself. ‘Anne, Paula, Julien, Scriassine, Dubreuilh – my friends!’ The word crackled in his heart with all the joyfulness of a Christmas sparkler.

While Scriassine was furiously applauding, Julien led Paula on to the dance floor. Dubreuilh turned towards Henri. ‘All those old codgers you met in Portugal, are they really hoping for a revolution?’

‘They hope. Unfortunately Salazar won’t fall before Franco goes, and the Americans don’t seem to be in a hurry.’

Scriassine shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can understand their not being anxious to create Communist bases in the Mediterranean.’

‘Do you mean to say that out of fear of Communism you’d go so far as to endorse Franco?’ Henri asked incredulously.

‘I’m afraid you don’t understand the situation,’ Scriassine replied.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dubreuilh said cheerfully. ‘We understand it very well.’ Scriassine opened his mouth, but Dubreuilh cut him off with a laugh. ‘Yes, you’re farseeing all right, but you’re still no Nostradamus. Your crystal ball is no clearer than ours when it comes to predicting things that’ll happen fifty years from now. One thing is sure right now though, and that is that the Stalinist menace is purely an American invention.’

Scriassine looked at Dubreuilh suspiciously. ‘You talk exactly like a Communist.’

‘Do you think a Communist would ever say aloud what I just said?’ Dubreuilh asked. ‘When you attack America, they accuse you of playing into the hands of the fifth column.’

‘The line’ll change soon enough,’ Scriassine replied. ‘You’re just anticipating it by a few weeks, that’s all.’ He knitted his brow. ‘I’ve often been asked in what ways you differ from the Communists. And I have to admit I’m always at a loss for an answer.’

Dubreuilh laughed. ‘Well, don’t answer then.’

‘Hey!’ Henri said. ‘I thought serious talk was out of order tonight.’

With an irritated shrug of his shoulders, Scriassine indicated that it was frivolity that was now out of order. ‘Is that a way of getting out of it?’ he asked, looking at Dubreuilh accusingly.

‘Now look,’ Dubreuilh answered. ‘I’m no Communist, and you know it.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’ Scriassine’s face underwent a sudden transformation; he gave Dubreuilh his most charming smile. ‘Really, I’d like to learn more about your point of view.’

‘I believe the Communists are backing the wrong horse just now,’ Dubreuilh said. ‘I know why they’re supporting Yalta; they want to give Russia enough time to get on her feet again. But as a result, the world is going to find itself divided into two camps with every reason to pounce on each other.’

‘Is that the only thing you have against them? An error of judgment?’ Scriassine asked severely.

‘What I have against them is not being able to see farther than the end of their noses,’ Dubreuilh shrugged his shoulders. ‘Reconstruction is all very well and good, but not when it’s done without considering the means. They go on accepting American aid, but one of these days they’re going to be sorry. One thing will lead to another, and eventually France will find herself completely under America’s thumb.’

Scriassine emptied his glass and banged it down on the table. ‘Now that’s what I call an optimistic prediction!’ In a serious voice, he continued rapidly, ‘I don’t like America and I don’t believe in the Atlantic community. But I sincerely hope America predominates, because the important question in this day and age is one of abundance. And only America can give it to us.’

‘Abundance?’ Dubreuilh said. ‘For whom? And at what price? That would be a pretty picture, to be colonized by America!’ he added indignantly.

‘Would you rather Russia annexed us?’ Scriassine asked. He stopped Dubreuilh with a sharp gesture. ‘I know. You’re dreaming of a united, autonomous, socialist Europe. But if Europe refuses the protection of the United States, she’ll inevitably fall into the hands of Stalin.’

Dubreuilh shrugged his shoulders. ‘Russia has no intention of annexing anything at all.’

‘In any case, that Europe you dream so much about will never come about,’ Scriassine said.

‘That’s what you say!’ Dubreuilh protested. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued heatedly, ‘here in France we have a clear-cut objective – to achieve a real popular front government. And for that, we need a non-Communist left that’s able to hold its own.’ He turned towards Henri. ‘We mustn’t lose any more time. At the moment people feel that the future is wide open. Let’s not wait until they become discouraged.’

Scriassine downed a glass of vodka and lost himself in contemplating the maître d’hôtel. He had given up talking sense to fools.

‘You say you’ve got off to a good start?’ Henri asked Dubreuilh.

‘We’ve started, but now we have to continue. I’d like you to see Samazelle as soon as possible. There’s going to be a committee meeting on Saturday and I’m counting on your being there.’

‘Let me have a little time to catch my breath,’ Henri said, giving Dubreuilh a slightly worried look. It wasn’t going to be easy defending himself against that nice, imperative smile.

‘I purposely delayed the meeting so that you could be there,’ Dubreuilh said reprovingly.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ Henri replied. ‘I assure you you’re overestimating my qualifications.’

‘And you your lack of them,’ Dubreuilh said. He looked at Henri severely. ‘You’ve got a pretty good picture these last four days of what’s been happening; things have been moving along at a damned rapid pace. You must have realized by now that neutrality is no longer possible.’

‘But I’ve never been neutral!’ Henri protested. ‘I’ve always agreed to go along with the SRL.’

‘Is that right? Well, let’s see now … Your name and a few appearances – that’s all you ever promised me.’

‘Don’t forget I have a newspaper on my hands,’ Henri replied.

‘Precisely. It’s the paper I have in mind more than anything else. It can’t remain neutral any more.’

‘But it never was!’ Henri said, surprised.

‘How can I get it through your thick skull?’ Dubreuilh said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Being on the side of the Resistance doesn’t constitute a political programme nowadays.’

‘No, I don’t have a programme,’ Henri admitted. ‘But whenever the occasion demands it, L’Espoir does choose sides.’

‘No, it doesn’t, not any more so than all the other papers. You argue about trifles, but when it comes to the big things, all of you somehow manage to agree on covering up the truth.’ There was anger in Dubreuilh’s voice. ‘From Figaro to L’Humanité, you’re all nothing but a bunch of humbugs. You say yes to de Gaulle, yes to Yalta, yes to everything; you act as if you believe there’s still a Resistance and that we’re heading steadily towards socialism. Your friend Luc has really been going to town with that hogwash in his recent editorials. All we’re doing, really, is marking time; in fact, we’re even beginning to retreat. And not a one of you has the guts to tell the truth!’

‘I always thought you agreed with L’Espoir,’ Henri said. He was stunned; his heart began beating rapidly. During the past four days, he had meshed with that paper as one meshes with one’s own life. And then all of a sudden L’Espoir was being indicted. And by Dubreuilh!

‘Agree with what?’ Dubreuilh asked. ‘L’Espoir has no line. You’re constantly complaining that nothing’s been nationalized. And what do you do about it? Nothing. Now what would be interesting would be to tell who’s putting on the brakes, and why.’

‘I don’t want to take a stand for or against any particular class,’ Henri said. ‘Reforms will come about when public opinion demands them, and what I’m trying to do is arouse opinion. I can’t very well do that if I’m going to set half my readers against me, can I?’

‘You can’t possibly believe that the class struggle is outmoded, can you?’ Dubreuilh asked suspiciously.

‘No.’

‘Then don’t come telling me about public opinion,’ Dubreuilh said. ‘On one side, you have the proletariat which wants reforms, and on the other, the bourgeoisie which doesn’t. The middle classes are treading water because they don’t know where their true interests lie any more. But don’t get the idea you can influence them; it’s the situation that will do the deciding.’

Henri hesitated. No, the class struggle wasn’t outmoded. All right. But did that automatically doom any appeal to people’s good intentions, to their common sense? ‘Their interests are quite complex,’ he replied. ‘I’m not at all convinced you can’t influence them.’

Dubreuilh was about to say something, but Henri cut him off. ‘Another thing,’ he said spiritedly. ‘The workers who read L’Espoir read it because it gives them a change from L’Humanité; it gives them a breath of fresh air. If I take a class stand, I’ll either repeat what the Communist papers are saying, or I’ll take issue with them. And either way, the workers will drop me.’ In a conciliatory voice, he added, ‘I reach a lot more people than you do, you know. That means I have to have a much broader platform.’

‘Yes, you do reach a lot of people,’ Dubreuilh said. ‘But you yourself just gave the reason why. If your paper pleases everybody, it’s because it disturbs nobody. It attacks nothing, defends nothing, evades every problem. It simply makes for pleasant reading, like a local sheet.’

Dubreuilh’s outburst was followed by a brief silence. Paula had returned to the table and was sitting next to Anne; she seemed outraged, and even Anne was quite embarrassed. Julien had disappeared. Scriassine, awakened from his meditations, looked back and forth from Henri to Dubreuilh, as if he were watching a tennis match. But it was a strictly one-sided match; Henri had been overwhelmed by the sudden violence of the attack.

‘What are you getting at?’ he asked.

‘Stop shilly-shallying,’ Dubreuilh answered. ‘Take the bit in your teeth and define your position in relation to the Communist Party.’

Henri looked at Dubreuilh suspiciously. It often happened that Dubreuilh would heatedly involve himself in the affairs of others, and, just as often, you came to realize that he had in fact made them his own affairs. ‘In short, what you’re proposing is that I accept the SRL’s entire programme.’

‘Yes,’ Dubreuilh replied.

‘But you don’t really expect L’Espoir to become the official organ of the movement, do you?’

‘It would be perfectly natural,’ Dubreuilh said. ‘L’Espoir’s weakness stems from the fact that it doesn’t represent anything. Besides, without a newspaper the movement has almost no chance of getting anywhere. Since our goals are the same …’

‘Our goals, but not our methods,’ Henri interrupted. Regretfully, he thought, ‘So that’s why Dubreuilh was so impatient to see me!’ The good spirits with which he began the evening had, in the course of the last few minutes, completely deserted him. ‘Isn’t it ever possible to spend an evening among friends without talking politics?’ he asked himself. There was nothing in their conversation so terribly urgent that Dubreuilh couldn’t have put it off for another day or two. He had become as much a crank as Scriassine.

‘Precisely. And take my word for it, it would be to your advantage to change your methods,’ Dubreuilh said.

Henri shook his head. ‘I’ll show you letters I receive every day, letters from intellectuals especially – teachers, students. What they all like about L’Espoir is its fairness. If I tack on a programme, I lose their trust.’

‘Of course. Intellectuals are delighted when you encourage them to be neither fish, flesh, nor fowl,’ Dubreuilh replied. ‘Their trust? Who needs it?’

‘Give me two or three years and I’ll lead them by the hand to the SRL.’

‘If you really believe that, then all I can say is you’re a starry-eyed idealist!’ Dubreuilh said.

‘Possibly,’ Henri replied with a slight show of annoyance. ‘But in ’41 they branded me an idealist too.’ Firmly, he added, ‘I have my own ideas about what a newspaper should be.’

Dubreuilh gestured evasively We’ll talk about it again. But believe me, six months from now either L’Espoir aligns itself with our politics or it’s all washed up.’

‘All right, we’ll talk about it again in six months,’ Henri said.

Suddenly, he felt tired and at a loss. Dubreuilh’s proposition had taken him by surprise, but he was absolutely resolved to do nothing about it. He felt a desperate need to be alone in order to clear his mind. ‘I have to be getting home,’ he said.

Paula remained silent on the way home, but they were no sooner in the apartment than she began her attack. ‘Are you going to give him the paper?’

‘Of course not,’ Henri said.

‘Are you really sure?’ she asked. ‘Dubreuilh wants it, and he is stubborn.’

‘I’m pretty stubborn myself.’

‘But you always end up by giving in to him,’ Paula said, her voice suddenly exploding. ‘Why did you ever agree to join the SRL? As if you didn’t have enough to do already! You’ve been back for four days now, and we haven’t had five minutes together. And you haven’t written a line of your novel!’

‘I’ll get back to it tomorrow. Things are beginning to settle down at the paper.’

‘That’s no reason to burden yourself with new loads,’ Paula said, her voice rising. ‘Dubreuilh did you a favour ten years ago; he can’t expect you to repay him for it for the rest of your life.’

‘But I’m not working with him simply to repay a favour, Paula. The thing interests me.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Don’t give me that!’

‘I mean it,’ he said.

‘Do you believe all that talk about a new war?’ she asked with a worried look.

‘No,’ Henri replied. ‘There may be a few firebrands in America, but they don’t like war over there. One thing you can be sure of – there’s going to be a radical change in the world for better or for worse. What we’ve got to do is to try to make it a change for the better.’