Graham Greene (27 page)

THOMAS MANN

he Soldier [John Scofield] said to Mrs Grinder, that it would be right to have my House searched, as I might have plans of the Country which I intended to send to the Enemy; he called me a Military Painter; I suppose mistaking the words Miniature Painter, which he might have heard me called. I think that this proves his having come into the Garden with some bad Intention, or at least with a prejudiced Mind.

Go thou to Skofield: ask him if he is Bath or if he is Canterbury. Tell him to be no more dubious: demand explicit words. Tell him I will dash him into shivers where and at what time I please; tell Hand and Skofield they are my ministers of evil To those I hate, for I can hate also as well as they!

WILLIAM BLAKE

he dark guesses of some zealous
Quidnunc
met with so congenial a soil in the grave alarm of a titled Dogberry of our neighbourhood, that a spy was actually sent down from the government
pour surveillance
of myself and friend. There must have
been not only abundance, but variety of these “honourable men” at the disposal of Ministers: for this proved a very honest fellow. After three weeks' truly Indian perseverance in tracking us (for we were commonly together), during all which time seldom were we out of doors, but he contrived to be within hearing—and all the while utterly unsuspected; how indeed
could
such a suspicion enter our fancies?—he not only rejected Sir Dogberry's request that he would try a little longer, but declared to him his belief, that both my friend and myself were as good subjects, for aught he could discover to the contrary, as any in His Majesty's dominions. He had repeatedly hid himself, he said, for hours together behind a bank at the seaside (our favourite seat), and overheard our conversation. At first he fancied, that we were aware of our danger; for he often heard me talk of one
Spy Nozy,
which he was inclined to interpret of himself, and of a remarkable feature belonging to him; but he was speedily convinced that it was the name of a man who had made a book and lived long ago. Our talk ran most upon books, and we were perpetually desiring each other to look at
this,
and to listen to
that;
but he could not catch a word about politics. Once he had joined me on the road (this occurred, as I was returning home alone from my friend's house, which was about three miles from my own cottage), and, passing himself off as a traveller, he had entered into conversation with me, and talked of purpose in a democrat way in order to draw me out. The result, it appears, not only convinced him that I was no friend of jacobinism; but (he added), I had “plainly made it out to be such a silly as well as wicked thing, that he felt ashamed though he had only
put it on.”
I distinctly remembered the occurrence, and had mentioned it immediately on my return, repeating what the traveller with his Bardolph nose had said, with my own answer; and so little did I suspect the true object of my “tempter ere accuser,” that I expressed with no small pleasure
my hope and belief, that the conversation had been of some service to the poor misled malcontent. This incident therefore prevented all doubt as to the truth of the report, which through a friendly medium came to me from the master of the village inn, who had been ordered to entertain the Government gentleman in his best manner, but above all to be silent concerning such a person being in his house. At length he received Sir Dogberry's commands to accompany his guest at the final interview; and, after the absolving suffrage of the
gentleman honoured with the confidence of Ministers,
answered, as follows, to the following queries: D. Well, landlord! and what do you know of the person in question? L. I see him often pass by with maister——, my landlord (
that is, the owner of the house),
and sometimes with the new-comers at Holford; but I never said a word to him or he to me. D. But do you not know, that he had distributed papers and hand-bills of a seditious nature among the common people? L. No, your Honour! I never heard of such a thing. D. Have you not seen this Mr Coleridge, or heard of, his haranguing and talking to knots and clusters of the inhabitants?—What are you grinning at, Sir? L. Beg your Honour's pardon! but I was only thinking, how they'd have stared at him. If what I have heard be true, your Honour! they would not have understood a word he said. When our Vicar was here, Dr L. the master of the great school and Canon of Windsor, there was a great dinner party at maister——'s; and one of the farmers, that was there, told us that he and the Doctor talked real Hebrew Greek at each other for an hour together after dinner. D. Answer the question, Sir! does he ever harangue the people? L. I hope your Honour an't angry with me. I can say no more than I know. I never saw him talking with any one, but my landlord, and our curate, and the strange gentleman. D. Has he not been seen wandering on the hills towards the Channel, and along the shore, with books and papers in his hand, taking charts and
maps of the country? L. Why, as to that, your Honour! I own, I have heard; I am sure, I would not wish to say ill of any body; but it is certain, that I have heard—— D. Speak out, man! don't be afraid, you are doing your duty to your King and Government. What have you heard? L. Why, folks do say, your Honour! as how that he is a
Poet,
and that he is going to put Quantock and all about here in print; and as they be so much together, I suppose that the strange gentleman has some
consarn
in the business.—So ended this formidable inquisition, the latter part of which alone requires explanation, and at the same time entitles the anecdote to a place in my literary life.

S. T. COLERIDGE

11th Aug. My Lord Duke—On the 8th instant I took the liberty to acquaint your grace with a very suspicious business concerning an emigrant family, who have contrived to get possession of a Mansion House at Alfoxton, late belonging to the Revd Mr St Albyn under Quantock Hills. I am since informed that the Master of the house has no wife with him, but only a woman who passes for his sister. The man has Camp Stools which he and his visitors take with them when they go about the country upon their nocturnal or diurnal excursions and have also a Portfolio in which they enter their observations which they have been heard to say were almost finished. They have been heard to say they should be rewarded for them, and were very attentive to the River near them.… These people may
possibly
be under-agents to some principal in Bristol.

am drawing on the beach, on the frontier. A gendarme from the Midi, who suspects me of being a spy, says to me, who come from Orleans: “Are you French?”

“Why, certainly.”

“That's odd.
Vous n'avez pas l'accent
(lakesent)
français.”

PAUL GAUGUIN

isbon, July 30th, 1940. Yesterday Windsor was with his Ambassador for a lengthy consultation. Today there arrived at the Duke's the English Minister who calls himself Sir Walter Turner Monckstone, a lawyer from Kent. The Portuguese confidential agent assumes, as I do too, that a cover name is involved. It is possible that it concerns a member of the personal police of the reigning King by the name of Camerone.

WALTER SCHELLENBERG
(IN A REPORT TO BERLIN)

ovember 10th, 1894. The Intelligence Service informed us in June last of a mysterious correspondence carried on daily in coded telegrams between the Count of Turin, a nephew of King Umberto of Italy, and the Duchessa Grazioli, an Italian living at the Hotel Windsor in Paris.

Colonel Sandherr,
¹
like a true gendarme, said to me:

“These telegrams don't smell good to me; to me there's a whiff of espionage about them.”

I answered:

“This time, my dear Colonel, your flair is deceiving you. To me these coded telegrams seem to give off a delicious perfume, for I know the lady who sends or receives them, the beautiful Duchessa Grazioli, Donna Nicoletta. She is a superb creature, tall, supple, and as voluptuous as a Bacchante. All her days and all her nights are not long enough for the caprices of her private life, and I assure you that she has something better to do with her time than to engage in espionage.”

But my romantic explanation failed to convince Sandherr, a sceptic by profession.

Not long afterwards—it was on a Monday—he burst into my office, with a gleam of exhilaration in his eyes.

“Look!” he said, handing me a small, flat book bound in blue cloth. “Look! There's your duchess's cipher! I've brought it so that your decoders can have a look at her correspondence with the Count of Turin.”