The Mandarins

‘This isn’t bad,’ Lambert said without conviction. He gave Scriassine a questioning look. ‘Do they really drink a dozen of these a day in America?’

‘They? Who are they?’ Scriassine asked. ‘There are a hundred and fifty million Americans, and, believe it or not, not all of them are like Hemingway heroes.’ His voice was harsh and disagreeable; he seldom made any effort to be friendly to people younger than himself. Deliberately, he turned to Henri. ‘I came over here tonight to have a serious talk with Dubreuilh. I’m quite worried.’

He looked preoccupied – his usual expression. He always created the impression that everything happening where he chanced to be and even where he chanced not to be – was his personal concern. Henri had no desire to share his worries. Offhandedly, he asked, ‘What’s worrying you so much?’

‘This movement he’s forming. I thought its principal objective was to draw the proletariat away from the Communist Party. But that’s not at all what Dubreuilh seems to have in mind,’ Scriassine said gloomily.

‘No, not at all,’ Henri replied.

Dejectedly, he thought, ‘This is just the kind of conversation I’ll be letting myself in for for days on end, if I get mixed up with Dubreuilh.’ From his head to his toes, he again felt an overpowering desire to be somewhere else.

Scraissine looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Are you going along with him?’

‘Only a little way,’ Henri answered. ‘Politics isn’t exactly my meat.’

‘You probably don’t understand what Dubreuilh is brewing,’ Scriassine said, giving Henri a reproachful look. ‘He’s trying to build up a so-called independent left-wing group, a group that approves of a united front with the Communists.’

‘Yes,’ Henri said. ‘I know that. So?’

‘Don’t you see? He’s playing right into their hands. There are a lot of people who are afraid of Communism; by winning them over to his movement, in effect he’ll be throwing their support to the Communists.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re against a united front,’ Henri said. ‘It would be a fine thing if the left started splitting up!’

‘A left dominated by the Communists would be nothing but a sham,’ Scriassine said. ‘If you’ve decided to go along with Dubreuilh, why not join the Communist Party? That would be a lot more honest.’

‘Completely out of the question. We disagree with them on quite a few points,’ Henri answered.

Scriassine shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you really do disagree with them, then three months from now the Stalinists will denounce you as traitors to the working class.’

‘We’ll see,’ Henri said.

He had no desire to continue the discussion, but Scriassine fixed him insistently with his eyes. ‘I’ve been told that L’Espoir has a lot of readers among the working people. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which means you have in your hands the only non-Communist paper in France that reaches the proletariat. Do you realize the grave responsibility you have?’

‘I realize it.’

‘If you put L’Espoir at Dubreuilh’s service, you’ll be acting as an accomplice in a thoroughly disgusting manoeuvre,’ Scriassine said. ‘Dubreuilh’s friendship doesn’t matter here,’ he added, ‘you’ve got to go the other way.’

‘Listen, as far as the paper is concerned, it will never be at anyone’s service. Neither Dubreuilh’s nor yours,’ Henri said emphatically.

‘One of these days, you know, L’Espoir is going to have to define its political programme,’ Scriassine said.

‘No. I refuse to have any predetermined programme,’ said Henri. ‘I want to go on saying exactly what I think when I think it. And I’ll never let myself become regimented.’

‘That kind of policy won’t stand up,’ Scriassine said.

Luc’s normally placid voice suddenly broke in. ‘We don’t want any political programme; we want to preserve the unity of the Resistance.’

Henri poured himself a glass of bourbon. ‘That’s all a lot of crap!’ he grumbled. Old, worn-out cliches were all that Luc ever mouthed – The Spirit of the Resistance! The Unity of the Resistance! And Scriassine saw red whenever anyone mentioned Russia to him. It would be better if they each had a corner somewhere where they could rave by themselves! Henri emptied his glass. He needed no advice from anyone; he had his own ideas about what a newspaper should be. Obviously, L’Espoir would eventually be forced to take a political stand – but it would do it entirely independently. Henri hadn’t kept the paper going all this time only to see it turn into something like those pre-war rags. Then, the whole press had been dedicated to fooling the public; the knack of presenting one-sided views in a convincing, authoritative manner had become an art. And the result soon became apparent: deprived of their daily oracle, the people were lost. Today, everyone agreed more or less on the essentials; the polemics and the partisan campaigns were out. Now was the time to educate the readers instead of cramming things down their throats. No more dictating opinions to them; rather teach them to judge for themselves. It wasn’t simple. Often they insisted on answers, and he had to be constantly on his guard lest he gave them an impression of ignorance, doubt, or incoherence. But that was precisely the challenge – meriting their confidence rather than robbing them of it. And the fact that L’Espoir sold almost everywhere in France was proof enough that the method worked. ‘No point in damning the Communists for their sectarianism if you’re going to be just as dogmatic as they are,’ Henri said to himself.

‘Don’t you think we could put this discussion off to some other time?’ Henri asked, interrupting Scriassine.

‘All right,’ Scriassine answered. ‘Let’s make a date.’ He pulled a note-book from his pocket. ‘I think it’s important for us to talk over our differences.’

‘Let’s wait until I get back from my trip,’ Henri said.

‘You’re going on a trip? News-hawking?’

‘No, just for pleasure.’

‘Leaving soon?’

‘Very soon,’ Henri answered.

‘Wouldn’t you call that deserting?’ Scriassine asked.

‘Deserting?’ Henri said with a smile. ‘I’m not in the army, you know.’ With his chin, he pointed to Claudie de Belzunce. ‘You ought to ask Claudie for a dance. Over there … the half-naked one dripping with jewellery. She’s a real woman of the world, and, confidentially, she admires you a lot.’

‘Women of the world are one of my weaknesses,’ Scriassine said with a little smile. He shook his head. ‘I have to admit I don’t understand why.’

He moved off towards Claudie. Nadine was dancing with Lachaume, and Dubreuilh and Paula were circling around the Christmas tree. Paula did not like Dubreuilh, but he often succeeded in amusing her.

‘You really shocked Scriassine!’ Vincent said cheerfully.

‘My going on a trip seems to shock damned near everyone,’ Henri said. ‘And Dubreuilh most of all.’

‘That really beats me!’ Lambert said. ‘You did a lot more than any of them ever did. You’re entitled to a little holiday, aren’t you?’

‘There’s no doubt about it,’ Henri said to himself. ‘I have a lot more in common with the youngsters.’ Nadine envied him, Vincent and Lambert understood him. They, too, as soon as they could, had rushed off to see what was happening elsewhere in the world. When assignments as war correspondents were offered them, they had accepted without hestitation. Now he stayed with them as for the hundredth time they spoke of the exciting days when they had first moved into the offices of the newspaper, when they had sold L’Espoir right under the noses of the Germans while Henri was busy writing his editorials, a revolver in his desk drawer. Tonight, because he was hearing them as if from a distance, he found new charm in those old stories. In his imagination he was lying on a beach of soft, white sand, looking out upon the blue sea and calmly thinking of times gone by, of faraway friends. He was delighted at being alone and free. He was completely happy.

At four in the morning, he once again found himself in the red living-room. Many of the guests had already gone and the rest were preparing to leave. In a few moments he would be alone with Paula, would have to speak to her, caress her.

‘Darling, your party was a masterpiece,’ Claudie said, giving Paula a kiss. ‘And you have a magnificent voice. If you wanted to, you could easily be one of the sensations of the post-war era.’

‘Oh,’ Paula said gaily, ‘I’m not asking for that much.’

No, she didn’t have any ambition for that sort of thing. He knew exactly what she wanted: to be once more the most beautiful of women in the arms of the most glorious man in the world. It wasn’t going to be easy to make her change her dream. The last guests left; the studio was suddenly empty. A final shuffling on the stairway, and then steps clicking in the silent street. Paula began gathering up the glasses that had been left on the floor.

‘Claudie’s right,’ Henri said. ‘Your voice is still as beautiful as ever. It’s been so long since I last heard you sing! Why don’t you ever sing any more?’

Paula’s face lit up. ‘Do you still like my voice? Would you like me to sing for you sometimes?’

‘Certainly,’ he answered with a smile. ‘Do you know what Anne told me? She said you ought to begin singing in public again.’

Paula looked shocked. ‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘Don’t speak to me about that. That was all settled a long time ago.’